Searching for the petition from Ano Korakiana

This book- The British and the Hellenes: Struggles for Mastery in the Eastern Mediterranean 1850-1960 by Robert Holland and Diana Markides [see Richard Clogg's review in The TLS 20/6/07]- has taken ages to come, but I'm delighted it's at last arrived, having awaited with the same eagerness as once, as a child, I anticipated the insertion through our letter box in Hampstead, weekly comics inside a roll of newspapers for grown-ups. In those days - the 1950s - I could smell the newspaper and especially the print - some of which came off on my hands. This book from Oxford University Press is well made, so even though the modern paper is outside my olfactory range I get a faint smell of the binding glue, at least that's Lin's diagnosis, after I'd passed the pristine book across the kitchen table for her to sniff. First sentence:

Greece, Lord Palmerston once remarked, was an 'emotional word'.

The chapters that especially interest me are those linked to the cover image of a troop of British soldiers emerging from the Old Fortress of Corfu, a watercolour, circa 1850, by George Savage MD. Between pages 13 and 80 are Chapter 2 - Gladstone and the Greeks: The Extraordinary Mission to the Ionian Islands, 1858-1859, and Chapter 3 - The Abandonment of the Ionian Protectorate, 1849-1864. At last I get to learn that Gladstones' journey from England to Corfu lasted from just over a fortnight from 8-24 November 1858 via Vienna relying on train, and steamer down the Adriatic (pp.22-24) and he left Corfu on 19 February 1859 on HMS Terrible for Trieste having toured the Ionian Islands and had talks in Athens during his twelve week visit to Greece. I like these kind of details because although I do not expect a reference in the book to the actual document I seek for Thanasis and Kostas I feel closer to the level of detail that I will need to dig around among primary sources at the Public Record Office at Kew. I think I can get there on 12 March. I phoned this morning and chatted to a friendly librarian. Adrian, who did some swift searches through Colonial Office Records in the ranges suggested to me by Eleni Calligas in her e-mail of 14 January 08:

I would suggest that the best place to look is the High Commissioner's Correspondence at the Colonial Office archive of the Protection, housed in the Public Record Office, now re-named National Archives but still held at the Kew. I would look at the last couple of years, from 1862 onwards - probably starting from CO136/177 to /184. If such a petition does exist and is signed by inhabitants of the village, it would be interesting to identify the local figure of importance, as the initiative probably emanated from there.

He was finding the same things I'd found. The level was too high and I need papers from villages, as described by Thanasis and Kostas in their letter of 5 December '07.

Dear Simon, It is said that before the Union of the Ionian Islands with Greece (1864), inhabitants of Ano Korakiana signed a "paper" asking the British Government to keep the islands under Britain...We have been looking for this paper for years at the Greek archives without result. We wonder if you can help us by searching this paper in British archives (Parliament, Colonies archives, Foreign Office etc). We are sure that one of the names that signed the paper is Panos, Panayiotis or Panagiotis Metallinos (Μετταλινος). He was the 'leader'. A similar paper has been signed by inhabitants of Kinopiastes (another village in Corfu) and one village in Zakynthos island... [Note from the Ano Korakiana website: The oldest families still existing in Korakiana are ... Savvanis (since 1473), Vradis, Mandilas, Ionas, Markos, Metallinos, Laskaris, kaloudis, Linosporis, Reggis, Balatsinos, and finally, Kendarchos and Kefallonitis during the first half of the 16th century.]

I need to turn up with ID and proof of residence and then I can do some searching there and even order copies of documents. I'm not sanguine about finding any of these papers at once. They are reported, orally, as having been delivered to Sir Henry Storks, who, as a career administrator, took over from Gladstone's Extraordinary posting to the role of Lord High Commissioner of the Ionian Islands, and stayed in that post until the Protectorate ended in 1863. I don't know if the so-called 'papers' or petitions are in English or Greek or both; in print or writing. * * * I've been travelling, as usual, for work - London, Cardiff, Brighton, Stafford, Lowestoft, Norwich in the last few days. A glossy brochure (page 8) for my May workshop in Australia has arrived describing a session at the LGMA national conference at Gold Coast. I'm introducing a workshop called IT TAKES TWO TO TANGO: GETTING THE POLITICAL-MANAGEMENT LEADERSHIP ROLES RIGHT:

Executive leadership in local government requires a recognition of the ambiguity, confusion and tension that arises at the overlapping boundaries of political and managerial spheres of action. In this workshop designed for elected officials and senior managers, Simon will show video extracts from a small sample of chief executive and elected member conversations to explain how politicians and managers in the UK jointly create government - a perennial puzzle of increasing consequence for the sector.'

* * * Meantime several local concerns have arisen over Handsworth Park and Black Patch Park, at recent evening meetings of my neighbours. The community centre on the Black Patch has been closed down but ill-secured for over 18 months so that footballers have no changing room and there's no meeting space for local groups to meet. An e-mail from our secretary, Andrew:

Hi Simon. Sue contacted me this morning about the community centre and I've been down myself this afternoon to have a look. Someone has been inside and broken windows from the inside - also Sue reported evidence that someone has tried to set the building on fire. She has been in touch with Sandwell MBC and the Fire Service. I couldn't get in so the doors appear to be secure but entry via the roof might still be possible. Sue is wondering whether we ought to contact the press about this. Sandwell haven't made any attempt to repair the damage to the roof or taken adequate measures to secure the windows and doors. Our fears are that the damage to the building will become beyond repair! Best Wishes Andrew

While I've agreed, at a meeting of the Handsworth Park Association, last night, to try to get a local councillor to arrange a meeting with the developer and other interested parties over the extended delays in laying out seven acres of private green space to pass on to Birmingham City Council. Here's the basis for a draft letter to Cllr. Kim Brom:

Dear Cllr. Brom. I wonder if you can arrange, as a matter of urgency, a meeting with the developer of the housing on the Victoria Jubilee Allotment, our Community Planning Officer, the Chair of Handsworth Cricket Club, the member of the City's executive who has allotments and sport in their portfolio and the relevant Scrutiny Chair. Graham Winfield, current Chair of the Handsworth Park Association, phoned me in Corfu, saying how concerned he was at the delayed arrival of the very much needed extra sports facilities on the VJA site that were going to be handed over to the city on conclusion of the 106A. As it is a large area of valuable green space - grass seeded with some remaining hedgerows is just sitting there. I was well aware the implementation of the planning gain deal was delayed. The developer was claiming the agreement included a provision to delay laying out the allotments, playing fields and other elements of the agreed plan until they had disposed of 40 units of the 80 houses on the site. By last July they had sold 20 (their figures and these may not be accurate now). This provision was not confirmed by the Planning Department. The matter is complicated by the change of developer (under terms I don't know) from Westbury to Church Homes. I've raised this matter twice at Ward Area sub and other meetings. During 2007 we've had the continuing problem of the 'green pathway' that was agreed as being integral to the original plan but which cannot connect the site to the Park because there's a 'hostage strip' of private land between the fence and the park where that gate should be. It is the garden of one house garden designed in by the developer which effectively means we have a public gate to nowhere and therefore makes the path impossible - so that what we feared and spoke strongly against, is a separation between the Park and the VJA site's recreational resources, and indeed the link between the park and the new housing. I understand the city planning department is, for the moment, not budging on this and even Alan Orr is unhappy about it. What the committee make of it when it is presented to them I don't know and perhaps a 'fudge' has been privately agreed that we don't know about. There's problem brewing here. The worst case involves the developer goes broke or selling to another developer who then lobbies to have more of the site to build cheaper homes so they can make what they view as a workable profit from the site. Meantime the community loses not only the land already built on, but yet more green space, and the planning gain deal is rejigged to provide fewer allotments and sports space and the project to bring new allotments and sports space into the area as part of Handsworth Park, is delayed for years...

* * * Just before I left the house where we'd had our meeting I saw a dark hard-wood bust of an African woman, along with other items that Dlci told me came from an artist friend in Kenya. As I examined the bust, she showed me privately taken colour photographs of people lying dead in their church in pools of dried blood following one of the violent episodes spreading across Kenya. The art is a from a Kenyan friend. The photos were sent by her to raise money and to show what has happened to her neighbours and relatives. I thought, in my safety, of Kevin Andrews' reference to murder driven by :...uncritical, unquestioning adherence to the revolting shame of lesser people’s stupidity, cynicism and cheapness.' (p.185 The Flight of Ikaros) * * * One of my mentor texts came in useful the other day when I was arguing about what could and couldn't be taught about political awareness in government. I said I'd learned from the Meno about problems of teaching things no-one can satisfactorily define. "But" I said "you can demonstrate its existence" "I'll accept that" he said. "Conversation helps" I said "and knowledge". The Meno patently indicates Socrates' courage; the vexation amounting to rage his words induced in some, and the danger he faced for being so persistently awkward. With Meno, the young man in the eponymous dialogue about the impossibility of teaching virtue, is sometimes uncomfortable, but there's respect even amid Meno's bewildered consternation, but, near its conclusion, the Democrat Antyus is drawn into the dialogue. Socrates had been arguing that even Thucydides for all his qualities could not teach his children to be good:

SOCRATES: Now, can there be a doubt that Thucydides, whose children were taught things for which he had to spend money, would have taught them to be good men, which would have cost him nothing, if virtue could have been taught. Will you reply that he was a mean man, and had not many friends among the Athenians and allies? Nay, but he was of a great family, and a man of influence at Athens and in all Hellas, and, if virtue could have been taught, he would have found out some Athenian or foreigner who would have made good men of his sons, if he could not himself spare the time from cares of state. Once more, I suspect, friend Anytus, that virtue is not a thing which can be taught. ANYTUS: Socrates, I think that you are too ready to speak evil of men: and, if you will take my advice, I would recommend you to be careful. Perhaps there is no city in which it is not easier to do men harm than to do them good, and this is certainly the case at Athens, as I believe that you know. SOCRATES: O Meno, think that Anytus is in a rage. And he may well be in a rage, for he thinks, in the first place, that I am defaming these gentlemen; and in the second place, he is of the opinion that he is one of them himself. But some day he will know what is the meaning of defamation, and if he ever does, he will forgive me. Meanwhile I will return to you, Meno..

At no point in this conversation has Socrates spoken evil, though Antyus had already reiterated contempt for Sophists - paid teachers of wisdom. How I loath sentences that include "if you take my advice", let alone the barely veiled threat "I would recommend you to be careful. Perhaps there is no city in which it is not easier to do men harm..."

[The images illustrating 'conversation' and 'knowledge' are from my research on the 'construction of trust' between politicians and administrators in government. They are in the public domain with permission from participants]

I entered the home of a woman...

Mum with Ann Muir on the road to Coignafearn - one of our walks beyond Garbole, about 18 miles south of Inverness. When we were here in February, the hills were covered in light snow, the ground was frosted, the river was full of ice; a chill wind from the east; deer were feeding in numbers on the flat of the strath. This day was mild. The dogs, who never chase stock, scampered happily up and down the hills. The valley was full of the sound of the waters of the Findhorn. My mother - 90 this year - sighs at needing a pusher. She'd prefer to be clambering to the higher ground with the dogs, but her balance fails her. Ann is from South Africa, from a farming family, here to help care for my mum until September. Coignafearn is owned by Sigrid Rausing, daughter of the Tetrapak billionaire Hans Rausing inventor of ingenious cartons for milk and juice. His daughter is a noted ecologist keen to protect the golden eagle population. In Strathnairn just south of Inverness at my mother's house. The Highlands are as I like them - misty and damp with midges and occasional intervals of sun to enrich the matte landscape, brightening violet heather, great purple thistles - symbol of Scotland - and lichened granite with dazzling light which later reddens a lingering watery gloaming. The wind roisters the birches round Brin Croft, Mum’s new home at Inverarnie full of bready smells, and the furnishings and decorations of Mains of Faillie - two miles north, now chill and empty with furniture marks on the scuffed carpets and weeds encroaching the gravel that for 40 years has crunched with our arrivals and departures. Lin and I arrived at Brin Croft late Wednesday night, after she’d driven north all afternoon – through the Lake District, to the border at Carlisle – not even halfway – through the lowlands past Lockerbie and Dunblane to the edge of Glasgow, a long dog leg by Stirling to Perth and the last hundred miles by Pitlochry and Blair Atholl before, at last Drumochter Pass, by the Boar of Badenoch and the Sow of Atholl and Dalwhinnie – the Highlands begins and dusk is on us as we pass Aviemore, Carrbridge, Tomatin, Ruthven and Moy and come to the slope before the turn to Fort Augustus that brings us by the low road to Inverarnie, to drink tea, with, for me a sip of Speyside malt (present from my eldest Greek sister) before a wood fire burning in a stove surrounded by slate slabs. Oscar joined the biscuit terriers clustered to delight each other with greeting barks that turned to growls, squeaks, smellings and lickings. Next morning, by sleeper, Kalvin and Emma – my relatives slightly removed – arrived to stay the weekend. Emma’s expecting a child in October and they’ve decided not to know if it’s a boy or girl. Amy came on Saturday by plane and train, sleepless from working late at the pub and rising early to get to the airport by replacement bus (her train to the airport cancelled by a security alert, or possibly a local flood). We’re a group of six. With mum helped by Ann from South Africa; Lin and me sleeping in the wood cabin my mother’s put next to her house, which she’s painted blue and white outside after a Swedish house she saw in a photo, but which by happy chance is Aegean blue. What an achievement, at 90, to have moved and settled in a new house inside three months! In my picture - Linda, mum, Amy (at the head of the table), Kalvin, Emma and Ann. Kalvin’s a central heating engineer with polyvalent enthusiasms. We can talk about anything. Because he knows about installing boilers I can even discuss local government without a polite change of subject. K’s also a painter. He showed me an acrylic – on his camera – of Billingsgate Market, near his birthplace, with fresh fish on ice, redskinned mongers and customers including a bearded Asian face of antique profile in a hoodie gazing towards a wet salmon. A portrait of Emma captured her gentle questioning amused face in the manner of Lucian Freud. Later when we were walking on the hills high above Strath Nairn we reflected on the latter’s portraits - how they captured such likeness yet if a man with a face like that walked in you’d wonder if he needed a doctor. ‘We see so little of what’s there.’ With Kalvin's enthusiasm I repeated a walk up and down one of the highest hills in the Strath that I'd done with Amy ten years ago - a photo here of her half way up. On Saturday morning I dreamed I entered the home of a woman who I was researching. I arrived at her house, got no answer to my knock but found the front door ajar. I started looking through papers in her sitting room which I assumed she’d prepared for our meeting. I could hear small movements in the kitchen. I thought it was a cat or a dog. No-one arrived, so I left. As I walked out my eye was caught by a notice in the small window on the left of the porch being held against the glass by the woman I’d come to see. On it was written ‘I CA’ in felt-tip capitals. I thought she was signalling for help – about me – to anyone passing by. I went up to the window and offered her my mobile, signing she could use it to phone for reassurance. After hesitating she raised the window enough for me to slip her the phone. We waited; me in the porch, she shut in the kitchen. My step-niece, Emma, when I told her about this over porridge at breakfast, had another explanation. ‘She couldn’t talk to you about the things you wanted to know. She was writing something that began “I can’t”. She’d left her door ajar and papers waiting for you to see, but when it came to talking about them she suddenly felt she couldn’t and stayed in the kitchen. Hearing you leave she scribbled a note but had only time to write ‘I ca’ before you were out of the door and away.’ But what did she make of the phone I gave her? That she should ring me? That I would ring her later on it and she could choose to answer or ignore the call? I’d thought she was phoning the police. Now I’m not sure she was doing more than holding my phone in dismayed indecision. I’ve just finished Keeley’s Inventing Paradise. It’s about a world, seemingly invented over a mere ten years, starting, in Keeley’s book, in 1937, during which modern Greece becomes Paradise for Lawrence Durrell and Henry Miller as they roam the land and its literature, making their own wondrous realm out of what they see and read and learn from the table talk of their Greek hosts and their connections. Keeley gathers into this world the people who actually met and laughed, feasted and talked together over just a few years. The book was published in 1999 and Keeley mentions a Greece, more recent, with passing slaps at mass tourism, but insists on ending his book before he switches to the ‘first person singular’. Expulsion from this paradise came with the great European civil war; the Italian and German Occupation of Greece bringing miseries that gave added lustre to the memory of innumerable wonderful days and evenings of companionship with talents, present in flesh and in spirit, of Seferis, Katsimbalis, Palamos, Cavafey, Elytis, Ghika, Antoniou, Stephanides, Ioanna and Constantine Tsatsos (to name the main ones and not to claim for myself the familiarity with, or even knowledge, of their work this easy listing could imply).

There are two anecdotes among the many that I especially liked. First at the crowded public funeral of the national poet Kostis Palamos on 28 February 1943 when, among a great crowd of mourners, George Katsimbalis began at the open graveside to sing the banned national anthem – a whole verse on his own followed by silence – German soldiers looking on, his wife trying to shut him up, and Ioanna Tsatsos, George Seferis’ sister, tugging at his sleeve. He begins the second verse, feeling like a drowning man, then a fat Corfiot friend makes a duet, and then, ‘like throwing a switch’, thousands took up the hymn to freedom. And second when Ioanna Tsatsos writes on 12 October 1944, that the German flag on the Acropolis came down ‘as though swallowed by the Holy Rock, and in its place rose the flag with the beloved colour of our sky’. I am embarrassed at the thought that next to my own there’s no other flag I should so gladly see marking a moment of great happiness – even though I deprecate the waving of flags in triumph (except for my brother’s sacred football) and admire Dr.Johnson for saying ‘patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel.’ The deeper significance of Keeley’s work is its extended comment on a greater Fall - something not yet worked out; certainly not in my mind [See entry 10/12/08]. The invention of Paradise was a product not only of the intoxicating mix of singular personalities – foreign and Greek – who figure in Keeley’s book but of a pre-war Greek culture that was first stifled then blighted by cruelty beyond previous imagining, events so far outside the imagination of its culture, beyond the reach of the philosophies of irony, stoicism and cynicism. Totalitarianism far beyond the authoritarianism of Metaxas, or the bullying of a village thug or the seedy dishonesty of a corrupt provincial official. This was a system unknown to Greeks - and many others across Europe. Talking to the House of Commons on 18 June 1940 of what might happen were Hitler's army to take over the British Isles, Churchill warned that "all that we have known and cared for, will sink into the abyss of a new Dark Age made more sinister, and perhaps more protracted, by the lights of perverted science." For us it didn't happen. To the Greeks it did.

Every symbol of Greek culture became sullied. I know how uncomfortable I feel seeing old photos of red phone boxes and English bobbies next to a German uniform in the Channel Islands. Suddenly there were soldiers in Wehrmacht and SS uniforms posing in front of the Parthenon and these filthy people were praising it as a monument to culture, infiltrated into every part of the Greek state, including Corfu. Even the evzone uniform was compromised, worn by a minority of collaborators. A new dark age did descend on the wondrous land, making everything ugly, affecting all they knew and cared for. Atrocities at Komeno, Kalavryta, Ligiades, Kessariani, Distomo, and the hostages [the woodcut is from p.343 of Mazower's account of the Nazi Occupation, showing a blokko (round-up) at Kokkinia, Athens on 17 August 1944. A masked informer is pointing out suspects to Germans troops and Greek collaborators]
netted by blokkos and stored for reprisal murders at Chaidari, marked a far greater swathe of one-off murders designed on purpose to be random to amplify fear and spread despair. To supplement mass murder came humiliation, deprivation, separation, displacement, vulgarisation and the suffocating ugliness of defeat, invasion and occupation and then the remorseless destruction of the oldest Jewish communities [This in Corfu alone - 10 June 1944] in Europe and their abduction and murder - a dose of deadly efficiency. Language falters before the risk of creating a league table of comparative wickedness. Beside these we find - ridiculous and obscene - almost positive remarks being made about the other two plunderers - Italy and Bulgaria - nicer rapists than the Germans, who might never have invaded Greece had Mussolini not invaded first and then sought help from an ally after the Italians were routed by the Greek army in the mountains of Albania. To imagine the frightfulness inflicted on dear Greece I have to imagine the truth of Mazower's observation about the Civil War that flared with the departure of the invaders. The joy described by Ioanna Tsatsos on 12 October was fleeting. True the swastika came down, but brave young Greeks had been pulling down Nazi flags including the one on the Parthenon throughout the Occupation [On the night of 30 May 1941, Manolis Glezos and Apostolos Santas removed the swastika from the Acropolis. They were arrested on 24 March of the following year and sentenced to death. More on this seen on MGO and read on 13/03/08]. No, Mazower quotes a primary source for a series of formative events that were, in his scholarly view, ‘more traumatic’ for Greece than the Occupation – the British Civil Police Liaison log book in WO 170/4049 and the subsequent account of events in Syntagma Square on Sunday 3 December 1944 by 23rd Armoured Brigade in WO 204/8312 – ta dekemvriana. On that day an icon of our fight against the Nazis, the Spitfire, was strafing parts of Athens and Englishmen in English khaki were sniping at Greeks from the Acropolis and, something few knew about, ‘the percentages agreement’, informed the fate of the wondrous land. After the occupation came five years of Civil War already metastasizing inside occupied Greece, with the carcinogens of human weakness and constant fear brought on by starvation, brutalisation, grief and fear to add to the intensity of human division. And they have yet to endure the stone years and the armoured democracy that lasted until 1974. I haven't read Odysseas Elytis' Axion Esti, nor yet listened to Mikis Theodorakis oratorio on the epic poem, which I have on a CD sung and spoken in German, recorded by a Dresden orchestra and choir in Leipzig in 1982. I believe it may help prepare my understanding of how Greek artists have encompassed and transformed a great darkness and created the possibility of forgiveness and, if not reconciliation - for some differences of values should never be smoked in the same pipe or allowed a clinking of glasses - then a sombre unforgetting oblivion. Sacks and sacks of undestroyed primary sources remain to erode self-serving narratives and contradict polarised recollections. Thucydides would have been proud of the young scholars, mostly Greek, and all Greek speakers, leafing through them now.

* * *

I returned from America in 1973 and got a job at Birmingham University. I met Lin in 1974. My life began anew but we did not see Greece together until 1995.