‘I don’t have the proper clothes to enter.’ I stand outside, and I observe from a great distance of respect this majestic temple that history built once again, dedicated to the divine centuries.
I remain proudly calm by this discovery, given as it appears, that all of contemporary Greece is built on top of sequential Greekness. In fact, I like the idea that even Kypseli, my home for almost a century — I must be its only antiquity —, would not completely disappoint the archaeological hoe. The excavation would discover some plebeian fragment or even an amphora.
A lion at the top. Guardian of the dead sanctity, which wrote about its life on earth under the light of the inner depths. How much did it win, when was it defeated, and in which sequence? Did triumph come first followed by the debacle, or was irresolute the winner once again?
I am transfixed by the honorary depth in which time hid its distinguished dead, and the draconian, immobile from the weight gates with which it shut the entrance, as if (in addition to that sacrilegious decay, which death allows to enter) another unannounced decay will arrive, and then another, and another, and another — a whole posse, of which oblivion is the mastermind.
And it is devastating that the deceased is being consoled and entertained by young, lively beautiful, shapely Caryatids, formally dressed in an elegant, cast, multi-pleated… sacrifice.
And since the home is where I lay my head to sleep, it interests me most, I pray and dream that Alexander the Great was the occupant of this memorial tomb. And I say this not of my own megalomania, but to stop that sullen mermaid from being battered by the wild sea of her question: ‘Is king Alexander still alive?’
That he is alive, I would be able to tell her.
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Personal notes:
This thought piece (written in prose) was published in Kathimerini newspaper’s ‘K’ inlet magazine on October 6th, 2014. It was part of several thought pieces by prominent Greek scholars who were asked to provide commentary on the archaeological findings at Amphipolis.
Some background about the excavations at Amphipolis is essential to understand Dimoula’s thought piece.
Amphipolis, an ancient city located in Northern Greece, was an important naval base during the reign of Alexander the Great. It was the birthplace of famous Macedonian admirals, including Laomedon of Mytilene.
During the early and mid 20th century, several individuals discovered parts of a broken marble monument scattered around the ancient Amphipolis area. The monument was restored in its entirety around 1940 and depicts a lion more than 4 meters in height. It is understood that the monument was set up in the 4th century BC to honour Laomedon. The original location of the monument is not known, although many believe the lion used to be on top of the Kasta hill at Amphipolis.
In August 2014, archaeologists discovered a tomb at the foot of the Kasta hill. This tomb has been described as the largest burial monument ever discovered in Greece, and news from its excavation has been a prominent media sensation in Greece in the past few months. The findings have sparked lively discussions about the possible ‘tenant’ of the tomb. Many Greeks initially speculated the tomb belonged to Alexander the Great. Although this speculation has no archaeological merit and has been dismissed as lacking credible historical evidence, it remains a fantasy in the minds of many Greeks who are very proud of their history.
Dimoula was asked to write this thought piece following one of the discoveries at the Kasta tomb site: two female statues of the Caryatid type that support the entrance to the second chamber of the tomb. Caryatids are sculptured female figures serving as the architectural support taking the place of a column or a pillar.
Dimoula’s thought piece begins with a reference to a popular Christian Orthodox ecclesiastical hymn sung during Holy week. The hymn refers to one of Jesus’ parables about a man who was not allowed to join a wedding’s festivities because of his improper attire. The real reason for the man’s dismissal was not his clothes, but his sinful soul. In this context, in the phrase ‘I don’t have the proper clothes to enter’, clothes refer to one’s soul, and entrance refers to God’s kingdom — the heavens.
Dimoula uses this phrase to signify she is hesitant to approach something sacred. By doing so, she differentiates her attitude towards the Kasta tomb from that of her other compatriots (and the media). While everyone is keen to view photos and find out as much as possible about what is inside the tomb, Dimoula, out of respect to what the tomb signifies, hesitates and keeps her distance.
But why is this tomb sacred to Dimoula?
The first paragraph gives a clue about the tomb's significance. She views the tomb as honouring the passing of time (the ‘divine centuries’). The passing of time is a common theme in Dimoula's poetry, and by introducing it here she connects this thought piece with the rest of her work.
The second paragraph makes a more explicit connection between the tomb and Dimoula as a person. She is calm about the excavations (again in contrast to everyone else) because she knows that every location has something significant to reveal in its own past. She suggests this is the case with people as well, and with her own past, which makes this thought piece more personal.
The third paragraph explores further what the tomb signifies to Dimoula. She refers to the lion monument believed to have been situated at the top of the Kasta hill and perceives this lion as a guardian to ‘sanctity’.
Dimoula questions whether this ‘sanctity’ is a victor or defeated. This uncertainty suggests a struggle, and given her reference to ‘inner depths’ as the cause of this struggle, 'sanctity' may be a metaphoric reference to human relationships, particularly relationships with loved ones. For Dimoula, human relationships are sacred, perhaps because she respects and acknowledges their power.
Human relationships are sacred also because they endure and suffer the 'attacks' of passing time. This is explored in the fourth paragraph, where Dimoula suggests that decay, decline and oblivion are the feared looters of the Kasta tomb. In this symbolism, Dimoula expresses her fear of inevitable decay in human relationships. As time passes, such decay leads to loss and pain. Dimoula signifies here that what she dreads the most is the inevitable loss of a loved one.
In the last paragraph, Dimoula introduces a character who symbolises and embodies this fear and loss. By introducing this character, Dimoula turns the spotlight away from Alexander the Great (again in contrast to her compatriots) towards his sister, the mermaid, who as legend has it wanders the seas asking about her brother’s fate. For Dimoula, Alexander's sister, and her suffering is what this tomb is all about.
Dimoula feels for Alexander’s sister and wants to give her good news. She wants to release her from the pain, or at least give the mermaid some hope. This spark of hope is an unusual presence in Dimoula's work, which is rarely affectionate.
Dimoula's note to Alexander's sister subverts the nationalistic fantasies of her compatriots and gives the tomb more human and universal significance. For Dimoula, the tomb at Amphipolis is not significant because it could belong to Alexander the Great. The tomb is significant because it gives hope for alleviating the pain of loss.
