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chapter 8 A Child among the Ruins: Some Thoughts on Contemporary Modern Greek Literature for Children

Przemysław Kordos

I admit that the title of this chapter may be misleading at first glance. Greece is by no means a country of ruins, or a ruined country, and ancient archaeological sites (“ruins”) are relatively scarce. In fact, in some regions of this beautiful country, such as Thrace or Thessaly, one can hardly find such attractions. On the other hand, the two main cities, Athens and Thessaloniki, which house probably up to 40% of the country’s population, are built around vast and well-exposed ancient sites. The Athenian Acropolis is the city’s most important landmark, helping substantially in navigating the chaotic city centre. In Thessaloniki the excavations mingle seamlessly with housing districts, shop- ping areas, and recreational parks, and are located near busy streets. So a Greek child has an excellent chance of living close to some ruins. The other, even more universal means of encountering Greek ruins is the standard school curriculum, which revolves around ancient history, tradi- tion, and literature. Textbooks abound in pictures and drawings that proudly present their ancient heritage to Greek children. The role of the educational system is very important in shaping the attitudes of future citizens. I will come back to this issue later on, but first I will start with a personal note. Although this chapter analyses several books for children written by Greek authors in the past few decades, it is by no means reduced solely to literary criticism. I propose a daring approach both in regard to classical reception and children’s literature studies—one that results from my primary formation, which is ethnography and my practice in this field, which comprises research- ing the Modern Greeks for fifteen years now. The relation between ethnographers and their objects of study constitutes a core of contemporary discussion on ethnographic self-conscience as disci- pline. Systemic approaches (deriving from social sciences in paradigm crisis) are partly abolished in favour of personal contact, dialogue, and the unique- ness of the ethnographer’s position of being “then and there,” staying faithful to the statement that “a researcher is also a research tool.”1 Thus, my interest

1 Cf. Anna Engelking, “Między terenem rzeczywistym a metaforycznym. Osobiste refleksje o antropologicznym doświadczeniu terenowym” [Between the real and metaphorical field

© Przemysław Kordos, 2016 | doi 10.1163/9789004335370_010 Przemysław Kordos - 9789004335370 This is an open access chapter distributed under the terms of the CC BY-NC-NDDownloaded 4.0 license. from Brill.com09/25/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 128 Kordos in this chapter is on a person, not a text, and in my analysis I depart from my personal experience to draw out more clearly the most important extraliter- ary issues, such as the ideological shaping of the audience and historical politics of the Greek state which permeate the realm of education. As a result, we will discover different aspects of the potential of the texts designed for Greek children—texts that affect and strengthen their identity. I was taught a “traditional” way of appreciating ruins, one bordering on ad- miration and nostalgia. On numerous occasions I tried to envisage the walls of ancient buildings and arcades shading ancient streets, all in the midst of chas- ing the remains of yet another edifice. Therefore some of the images I encoun- tered while in Greece came to me as a shock. Little boys playing soccer just outside the Odeon of Herodes Atticus with a goalkeeper standing in one of the ruined arches. An adolescent practising mountain biking on the hills and crev- ices of the Spartan Acropolis, whose disorderly remains are scattered among a peaceful olive grove north of the modern town of Sparta (see figure 8.1). My own son picking wildflowers in Cyprus’s Kourion. This all made me revise my attitude to ruins. I never had a childlike appreciation of them, because from the very beginning I only considered them in a scholarly manner. Children, on the other hand, treat them for what they really are: bundles of stones in a peaceful park, away from the hustle of a modern town, devoid of crowds and sometimes even left unguarded. One could say that children’s contact with the ruins, and through them with the past, is natural and intimate.2 It is only later that they learn—both through the system (school) and outside of it (through extracurricular books, the centre of my interest here3)—about the past, the “glory that was Greece,” and, for the first time feeling the weight

of work. Personal thoughts on anthropological field experience], in Tarzycjusz Buliński and Mariusz Kairski, eds., Teren w antropologii. Praktyka badawcza we współczesnej antropologii kulturowej [Fieldwork in anthropology. Research practice in contemporary cultural anthropology] (Poznań: Wydawnictwo uam, 2011), 169–180. 2 The inhabitants of Warsaw also have this experience of living among the ruins. The ruined places are slowly being rebuilt and reconstructed, but at least the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, situated in the only surviving piece of the Saxon Palace, will remain a memory. War- saw’s ruins are, however, very different from the Greek ones: while they remind us of the unmatched bravery of insurgents, they are also a reminder of the utter catastrophe that was brought about in the aftermath of the Warsaw Uprising (1944), when prewar Warsaw, de- stroyed in retaliation by the Nazis, ceased to exist. Therefore, the proportions of pride and nostalgia these ruins evoke in the inhabitants of the Polish capital are quite different from those felt by the Greeks, strolling around ancient debris in the Acropolis or Agora. 3 For the supportive role in education played by historical children’s fiction, see Janet Fisher, “Historical Fiction,” in Peter Hunt, ed., International Companion Encyclopedia of Children’s Literature (London: Routledge, 2004), vol. 1, 490–498. The entry comprises also a brief biblio- graphical guide.

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Figure 8.1 Przemysław Kordos, Mountain Biking in Sparta © by Przemysław Kordos. of history upon their shoulders, are taught to respect those places and to approach them with reverence and awe. A brief glance at the Greek school curriculum is enough to justify this thesis.4 Admittedly, the introduction of ancient themes is slow at first. During

4 All up-to-date textbooks are available on the Digital School webpage http://dschool.edu .gr/ (accessed Oct. 12, 2015). Current curricula are contained in documents published by the Greek Ministry of Education and Culture (the former Ministry of Education and Religion).

Przemysław Kordos - 9789004335370 Downloaded from Brill.com09/25/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 130 Kordos the first three years, Greek children become acquainted with ancient myths and aspects of ancient history (deeds of Alexander the Great or ordinary life in classical Athens) only through texts studied in Modern Greek language class— glimpses of Antiquity which function on an equal footing with texts concern- ing other epochs and countries. However, the situation changes radically in the fourth grade with the introduction of the class on history: the first year of the three-year course (fourth to sixth grade) is devoted solely to mythological, archaic, classical, and Hellenistic Greece. During the second year the periods of Roman and Byzantine dominance are covered. The third year focuses on the last half millennium. Even such a short course description shows the importance placed on Greek Antiquity: up to half of the history course is taken up by ancient history. The emphasis on Antiquity is stressed further in middle school, which lasts for three years and is attended by children aged from 12 to 15. Here the history course is repeated, but this time only a year is devoted to becoming acquainted with Antiquity.5 On the other hand a class in Ancient Greek is introduced, along with extensive reading of Herodotus’s Histories and Homer’s Odyssey. In the second year the Ancient Greek class is strengthened by an anthology, which supplements the regular language textbook: Aρχαία Eλλάδα: o τόπoς και oι άνθρωπoι / Arhaia Ellada: o topos kai oi anthropoi [An- cient Greece: The place and the people].6 This is a curious collection of ancient texts, translated into Modern Greek, which revolves around the six most dis- tinguished poleis and concludes with a chapter on the phenomenon of ancient athleticism. Pupils in the last year of middle school read Anabasis Alexandri by Arrian, learn about ancient theatre (δραματική ποίηση / dramatike poiese— dramatic poetry) through the texts of Aristophanes’ Birds and Euripides’ Helen, and take their first steps in philosophy with help from the pre-Socratic sages to Plotinus. A diligent fifteen-year-old modern Greek pupil receives a thorough classical education, being able to read and interpret a wide selection of ancient masterpieces in their original form.7

5 Greece has recently become a battlefield for Ancient Greek language in the gymnasium (lower middle school). In May 2016 a group of fifty-six professors published an open peti- tion to abolish the extended Ancient Greek language curriculum in favour of extending the Modern Greek programme. Their initiative brought about an intensive, sometimes aggres- sive response. The issue is still being debated, but it is failing. 6 Theodoros Stephanopoulos, Aρχαία Eλλάδα: o τόπoς kαι oι άνθρωπoι / Arhaia Ellada: o topos kai oi anthropoi [Ancient Greece: The place and the people] (Athens: o.e.δ.b., 2010). 7 Education about Classical Antiquity by no means stops there. The last (non-compulsory) three years of secondary education offer a variety of obligatory classes devoted to ancient times. There is a third look at ancient history in the first year (accompanied by a textbook on

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Authors of books for children are free from the constraints and guidelines of the school programme and can thus relate to children’s experience by em- ploying a variety of techniques and shaping stories according to their needs. I am interested in such methods as well as the message that they intend to convey by invoking Antiquity. I have therefore chosen to look at three best- selling books with ancient themes. Their plots are contemporary (i.e., they do not reconstruct aspects of ancient lives, like, for example, the Voyage du jeune Anacharsis en Grèce written by Jean-Jacques Barthélemy, 1788), and all of them have as protagonists Greek children who learn about their past. One would assume that these books belong to so-called historical fiction. This is true, but in a different sense this term functions within the realm of children’s literature studies. Anna Adamik-Jászó argues that historical fiction is most commonly based on the model “us versus others,” where our ancestors are faced not only with different realities, but different people—friends, foes, invaders, victims.8 However, Modern Greek historical fiction deals with the Greeks and the model is rather “us versus us” or even “how we have become us.” The books chosen for analysis in this chapter fit in perfectly with this model. Their titles are the following:

1. Christos Boulotis, To άγαλμα που κρύωνε / To agalma pou kryone [The statue that was cold], illustrated by Foteini Stefanidi and published by Pata- kis (Athens, 1998);9 2. Alki Zei, H Aλίκη στη χώρα των μαρμάρων / E Alike ste hora ton marmaron [Alice in Marbleland], illustrated by Sofia Zarabouka and published by Kedros (Athens, 1997); 3. Kira Sinou, Eleni Hook-Apostolopoulou, To χέρι στο βυθό / To heri sto bytho [The hand in the deep], published by Kastaniotis (Athens, 1988).

ancient historiographers), followed in the second year by anthologised ancient poetry and rhetoric. Pupils read Sophocles’ tragedies and—in the third year—Pericles’ Funeral Oration. Last but not least, those who are willing are offered a two-year course in Latin. 8 See Anna Adamik-Jászó, “Friend or Foe? Images of the Germans in Hungarian Literature for Young Readers,” in Margaret Meek, ed., Children’s Literature and National Identity (London: Trentham Books, 2001), 33–42, esp. 35. 9 Boulotis, a very popular and prolific writer of books for children, is a professional archaeologist, specialising in the Minoan and Mycenaean periods (see the entry on Boulotis at www .biblionet.gr, which contains the literary resources of the Greek National Book Centre, accessed April 1, 2013).

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The first two books are written for children attending elementary school (and Boulotis had in mind younger children than did Zei), while the third, much longer and less illustrated, is for older children in the last classes of elementary and middle school. All of them were acclaimed and won literary prizes. In order to draw even the simplest comparisons I recently looked at these books from three perspectives: I sought to discover the emotions that they are intended to evoke (emotionality), the range and depth of information that they are intended to convey (informative content), and their “fun factor” (their potential for entertainment). The first thing that strikes the reader of Christos Boulotis’s book The Statue That Was Cold is how beautiful it is (see figure 8.2): hard-cover (and yet quite slim), published in large format and with vivid, slightly dreamy illustrations by the acclaimed Athenian artist, Foteini Stefanidi.10 The book won a plethora of literary awards, including the National Children’s Book Award and an award from the important literary periodical Διαβάζω / Dia- bazo, and it remains popular. In fact, a fragment of it was included in a textbook.11 It tells the story of an exhibit in the National Archaeological Museum in Athens—a small statue depicting a boy wrapped up in a cape and holding a dog. The boy looks like he is cold and the story explains why: he is cold because he misses his “motherland” and because he has no friends. The statue, which dates back to the first century bc, comes from the Ionian shores of Asia Minor and was delivered to the museum in 1922, the year of the Micro-Asiatic Catastrophe, the Graeco-Turkish war that brought about the exchange of pop- ulations and meant the end of Hellenism in Anatolia:

10 One could be tempted to include this book within the now widely discussed category of “picture books.” Perry Nodelman argues the importance of the picture within a picture book, putting it on the same level as textual content. Moreover, he defines dynamic as the “essence” of picture books. While it is uncertain whether any of the books I chose to analyse fall under the picture book category, Boulotis and Stefanidi’s work can be considered as such. However, caution is recommended, as it is the artistic value, not the factor of “moving-the-story-forward,” that draws attention to Stefanidi’s marvellous creations. In addition, the illustrations are here surely of lesser value than the text itself. Cf. Perry Nodelman, “Picture Books and Illustration,” in Hunt, International Companion Encyclope- dia, vol. 1, 154–165. 11 Anna Iordanidou et al., Γλώσσα τoυ Στ’ δημοτικoύ. Λέξεις… φράσεις… κείμενα, Γ’ τεύχος / Glos- sa tou St’ demotikou. Lexeis… fraseis… keimena, G’ teuhos [Language for the sixth grade. Words… phrases… texts, part 3] (Athens: o.e.δ.b., 2011), 58–60 (textbook in Modern Greek language for the sixth grade of elementary school).

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Figure 8.2 Cover of Christos Boulotis’s Tο άγαλμα που κρύωνε [The statue that was cold] illustrated by Foteini Stefanidi (Athens: Patakis, 1998), © by Pata- kis Publishers.

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He [i.e., the statue] was homesick beyond remedy for his motherland in Anatolia, on the opposite shore of the Aegean Sea. He had been brought from there during a great disaster, by the desperate people who left their homes to save themselves, becoming refugees scattered to the four cor- ners of the world. (8)12

So the statue itself is a refugee,13 and is thus called To προσφυγάκι / To prosfygaki [The little refugee boy]. In the course of the story the statue befriends a clean- ing lady in the Museum, Mrs. Galateia, who is also a refugee from Asia Minor, and then the statue becomes acquainted with another boy, Lambris, the son of the night watchman. The three of them receive help from a mysterious blue bird that comes to them in their sleep and organises a magical night trip to the other shore, the “lost” shore. The excursion soothes their nostalgia—and the statue is not as cold as before. Unlike the illustrations, the story is pretty weak: I actually tried to tell it as a bedtime story to my son, but he did not like it at all as it made him scared (and then he demanded a different story). Moreover, the main message of the book has little to do with Classical Antiquity: the ob- ject—the statue—is not the pretext for a discussion about sculpture or Greek civilisation in Ionia, but rather for an account of the lost “motherland” and the deep longing for it:

‘But when will we cross again the waters of the Aegean?’ – sighed the little statue […]. ‘Who knows? [said Mrs. Galateia] Perhaps one day we will again see our motherlands on the other shores of the sea, just for a moment. I also long for it.’ (13)

12 All quotations from the book are translated by P.K. 13 While the majority of Western children’s literature in its inter- or multicultural aspect focuses on contemporary issues such as refugees, exiles, and immigrants, for the Greeks the refugees are also Greek. In a way Greece stays in self-imposed isolation, with its literary attention turned inward and toward the past. Only recently, topics such as the presence of Albanians (and Albanian children), who emigrated to Greece in massive numbers in the 1990s and are now an element of ordinary Greek life, have come to the attention of writers, but rather of those who seek an adult audience. Books, such as Katerina Mouri- ki’s Γκασμέντ, ο φυγάς με την φλογέρα / Gkasment, o fygas me ten flogera [Gazmed, escapee with a flute] (Athens: Ekdoseis Papadopoulos, 2003); or Maroula Kliafa’s Ο δρόμος για τον Παράδεισο είναι μακρύς / O dromos gia ton Paradeiso einai makrys [The road to Paradise is long] (Athens: Kedros, 2003), are notable and rare examples.

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So the book is not at all informative (with the exception of a small fragment on the last page which explains details about the statue as a museum exhibit), it is not particularly entertaining, and its chief goal is evidently to evoke in- tense nostalgia for the land east of the Aegean. This feeling is very present in contemporary Greek culture, permeating the most important masterpieces of twentieth-century Greek literature. Antiquity is here merely a vehicle for this feeling, a part of the history lost with everything else that was there. But there are no political suggestions, no pointing fingers—just feelings.14 Laurajane Smith states that using nostalgia as a discursive technique is generally improp- er for creating a link between (young) readers and their heritage. Nostalgia can imply that the past was better than the present and evoke a feeling of a loss, which, due to the nature of nostalgia, cannot be replaced.15 Overall, the message of the text is thus not at all positive. It is worth mentioning that Boulotis later wrote another children’s book, in which he approached Antiquity from a different angle. In the story of Pinoc- chio visiting Athens, the main protagonist, Collodi’s original creation, appreci- ates the genius of the Ancients who created such a marvellous city. The con- notation is here devoid of nostalgia, but full of pride.16 The second book looks similar, but appearances are deceptive. In Alki Zei’s Alice in Marbleland (with illustrations by Sofia Zarabouka, whose name also appears on the cover and is written in the same print since her work is considered equally important to that of the author; see figure 8.3),17 even the title suggests another type of entertainment. The main protagonist is a girl called Alice, who likes reading about her famous predecessor who had adventures in

14 It is notable that neither the pupils’ exercises in the aforementioned textbook nor the teacher’s guide book corresponding to the textbook mention Antiquity. The fragment of Boulotis’s story is used only to teach the rules of narration: how to reconstruct the se- quence of events in a story. 15 See Laurajane Smith, “Taking the Children: Children, Childhood and Heritage Making,” in Kate Darian-Smith and Carla Pascoe, eds., Children, Childhood and Cultural Heritage (London: Routledge, 2013), 107–125, esp. 115. 16 Christos Boulotis, Ο Πινόκιο στην Aθήνα / O Pinokio sten Athena [Pinocchio in Athens], illustrated by Vasilis Papatsarouchos (Athens: Polaris Ekdoseis, 2013). 17 Such a remark may be commonplace in a world in which illustrators and picture books have won their position in literary criticism. It is not so in Greece, where book artists still fight for their rightful place and appreciation. Sofia Zarambouka is an important example, as she has published many books that she has both written and illustrated (e.g., twelve volumes of mythology for children).

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Figure 8.3 Cover of Alki Zei’s H Aλίκη στη χώρα των μαρμάρων [Alice in Marbleland] illustrated by Sofia Zarabouka (Athens: Kedros, 1997), © by Metai- chmio Publications s.a.

Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass. The Greek Alice will also have adventures—but in the British Museum. The book begins by introducing Alice, who lives just by the Ancient Greek Agora and whose balcony has a view of the Acropolis. Her uncle Angelos is:

[…] an archaeologist—and a passionate one, as everyone said. His great- est dream was to see the Parthenon marbles (let no one dare call them the Elgin Marbles!) removed from the British Museum, one by one, and returned to their original home in Greece. (7)18

18 Trans. Amy Mimis (Athens: Kedros, 1997), pages in the book are not numbered.

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During the Easter holidays Alice travels with her uncle to London to see the marbles (the so-called Elgin marbles taken off the Parthenon by Lord Elgin at the beginning of the nineteenth century and treasured in the heart of the British Museum ever since). Alice and her uncle visit them in the afternoon as soon as they have checked in to their hotel. The next day, as Uncle Angelos has some things to do, he leaves Alice in the hotel, but she goes out and finds herself in the museum, in front of the marbles. There she meets a mysterious talking cat, which, like the Cheshire Cat, can disappear at will. It tells her that it is the descendant of Lord Elgin’s cat. They have a talk about the marbles. Alice tells the cat about Lord Elgin, explaining how the marbles found their way to London. In her story Lord Elgin is a selfish dandy, a thief, and a miser, but also an unbelievably lucky devil. She explains how barbarous the process of claim- ing the marbles really was. The cat is convinced and offers Alice help in re- turning the marbles. She is supposed to take Polaroid pictures of the marbles, for the cat has a special substance which, when applied to the photographs, will transport the marbles from the museum to anywhere the photographs are placed. So Alice will take her photos to the Acropolis and use the substance to bring the marbles back to Greece. At the moment the cat has only a little po- tion, “only enough for the horn of the ox and for one ear of the horse” (33). But perhaps in the future things will be different? The book explains to children an important problem in Modern Greek archaeology: the loss of important works of Greek Antiquity to foreign museums. Zei’s work is dedicated to Melina Mercouri (1920–1994), the actress, singer, and eventually Minister of Culture, who put so much effort into trying to regain the marbles, so far with no success, although the new Acropolis Museum has a special hall, empty at the moment, that awaits the marbles. From Alice’s story children also learn about the marbles themselves, about their former situation within the Parthenon, about the themes they depict, and so on. The book, while emotional, is also quite informative and entertaining, especially if one knows and likes Alice in Wonderland. But the propaganda and political undertone that permeate the whole text can be a little offput- ting. Here yet another author decides to talk about Classical Antiquity using the language of strong emotions19 and it is not surprising, because “neither

19 Literary critics Peter Panaou and Tassoula Tsilimeni show that Zei’s book can be read within the framework of national ideology, whose aim is not the glorification of the classical past but the reclaiming of its lost pieces. They also show that the book attempts a British-Greek reconciliation within this subject. See Peter Panaou and Tassoula Tsilimeni, “International Classic Characters and National Ideologies,” in Christopher Kelen and

Przemysław Kordos - 9789004335370 Downloaded from Brill.com09/25/2021 10:21:34PM via free access 138 Kordos education nor literature is value-free,” as Judith Humphrey states in the open- ing line of her article on the image of girls in British children’s literature.20 She then moves on to say that traditionally British education has been “strongly moral.” These intuitive judgements are very true for the Modern Greek case, as it is the easiest way to convey value and strengthen morality through evoking certain emotions. Kira Sinou and Eleni Hook-Apostolopoulou published The Hand in the Deep (see figure 8.4) with the help of the illustrator Orion Akomanis, who is not as well-known as the previously mentioned illustrators—and to be frank— whose pictures are quite feeble. Nevertheless the book won many awards: the Silver Medal of the Greek Divers Federation, the Award of the Women’s Liter- ary Company, the Award of the Journalists and Tourism Writers Union, and others. The awards, especially the first, say much about the book. One of the writers, Hook-Apostolopoulou, is a diver, a professor of Greek studies who takes a professional interest in “scholarly” diving and has been a member of expeditions exploring old wrecks. The book tells the story of the dis- covery and excavation of the so-called Antikythera Treasure, the wreck found by the shores of the small Ionian island of Antikythera, performed mostly by Greek sponge divers from the Dodecanese island of Symi in the early years of the twentieth century.21 The most famous exhibits found were the bronze statue of Ephebe and the Antikythera Mechanism.22 The book undertakes to tell young readers about the excavation and its aftermath. The main protagonists are a young diver named Tsabikos and Ko- rinna, a girl from a wealthy Athenian family who takes part in the expedition along with the senior government officials and naval officers. At the end of the book we learn that the main narrator is the granddaughter of Korinna and Tsabikos. She finds Korinna’s diary and questions her grandfather to record his memories. The book is highly informative. It informs the reader about the divers, their customs and problems (especially “the bends”), and about the sea itself, its fauna and flora, and its dangers.

Björn Sundmark, eds., The Nation in Children’s Literature: Nations of Childhood (London: Routledge, 2013), 200–206. 20 Judith Humphrey, “Subversion and Resistance in the Girls’ School Story,” in Jenny Plastow and Margot Hillel, eds., The Sands of Time: Children’s Literature: Culture, Politics and Iden- tity (Hertfordshire: University of Hertfordshire Press, 2010), 25–48, esp. 25. 21 Kira Sinou and Eleni Hook-Apostolopoulou, To χέρι στo βυθό / To heri sto bytho [The hand in the deep] (Athens: Kastaniotis, 1988), 165. 22 The Antikythera Treasure was exhibited until August 2013 at the National Archaeological Museum in Athens.

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Figure 8.4 Cover of Kira Sinou’s and Eleni Hook-Apostolopoulou’s To χέρι στο βυθό [The hand in the deep] illustrated by Orion Akomanis (Athens: Kastaniotis, 1988), © by Kastaniotis.

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Readers also learn about Athenian highlife, and meet some high-profile figures like the then Minister of Education, or the famous scholar Panagiotis Kavvadias (1849–1928). They also hear about emerging social problems like the fight for women’s suffrage. There are some historical digressions, for example about the Cretan Insurrection in 1897. Finally, readers receive a lot of information on the wreck itself and on its treasures. The heroes take part in some of the action, especially Tsabikos, who is actually the one who finds the treasure (represented by the “hand literally sticking out of the sea bottom,” 2623). But they are more a background, a pretext to present the whole story. In fact at the beginning of the book the authors clearly state what is true and what is fictional. The propaganda that dominated the first two books is here much more dis- creet, but I will note two striking examples:

Then I told her about Symi, which was still Turkish then […]. Korinna did not know what slavery [σκλαβιά / sklabia] was, because she was born in free Athens and I did not know what freedom was, because I was born in enslaved Symi. I felt freedom only when I left with my ship for the open sea. There, in the boundless seas, there was no slavery [σκλαβιά / sklabia] and no Turkey [Tουρκιά / Tourkia]. (134)

These last two words actually neatly rhyme in Greek and bring out the message even more; but there is no evidence of Classical Antiquity here. It is presented in the next fragment:

‘[These findings] have even more meaning, because they will be one of the first, let’s say, “excavations” done exclusively by our own people.’ ‘Why, father? Were there no excavations performed by Greek archaeologists?’ ‘Unfortunately, only in a very few cases. Mycenae was discovered by Schliemann. Excavations in Olympia were led by the Germans. The French found the Charioteer when they were digging in Delphi. And Evans, who discovered unprecedented civilisation in Crete, is an English- man. Only Mr. Kavvadias, who visited our home the other day, did some excavating in Epidauros and on the Acropolis, where he discovered the true treasure: the famous korai and Three-Headed Daemon. […] Besides, from what I know these will be the first archaeological investigations to take place under water.’ (63)

23 All translations from this book—P.K.

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In the first passage we experience a touch of nationalism, the well-known rhetoric that “Turkish rule was the Dark Ages for the Greeks.” The second is much nobler, and in my opinion states an important reason for the significance of the Antikythera findings. Not only is the treasure great and without compari- son, not only will it finally be the Greeks that discover important aspects of their past, but this exploration will be the first of its kind. Finally, Greece will excel in what should be her “speciality”—in archaeology.24 I must admit that in the above books I failed to find what I was looking for: they did not manifest any coherent (and advanced) way of teaching about the past.25 I have found, however, some unexpected threads, like the use of the past to promote present political and national issues, to reaffirm Modern Greek identity, and to guide future endeavours (like the reclaiming of stolen heritage). The above sample is small26 and it is difficult to present further

24 Such rhetoric by no means belongs to the past. Recently the striking announcement hit the Greek and then the world media that Greek archaeologists had discovered a tomb in Amphipolis (Eastern Macedonia) attributed to Alexander the Great’s wife and son. Re- gardless of the quality of the findings, the national hysteria that accompanied the discov- ery was remarkable, with it being dubbed a great triumph of “national archaeology.” See Georgios Hamilakis, Aπό τη Bεργίνα στην Aμφίπoλη: Πρώτα ως τραγωδία, μετά ως φάρσα / Apo te Bergina sten Amfipole: Prota os tragodia, meta os farsa [From Vergina to Amphipolis: First as tragedy, later as farce], http://enthemata.wordpress.com/2013/09/01/xamilakis-2/ (accessed Sept. 30, 2013). 25 On the other hand they are ideologised, which aligns with the thought of John Stephens who states that it is historical fiction for children that is “most radical ideologically,” see his Language and Ideology in Children’s Fiction (London: Longman, 1992), 202. Later (203) he admits that while writing historical fiction can be dangerous, he truly believes in the existence of “transhistorical human values” and he assumes that “human desires are rea- sonably constant,” thus strengthening our bond with the past. Therefore, a well-executed historical book for children is able to transmit a whole set of positive values, reaffirm- ing the grasp of the past and reflecting eternal—as it seems—human nature, striving for happiness and a good life, regardless of restrictions, conditions, and other time-related factors. Moreover, “[i]t has long been an assumption of our culture that the essential pur- pose of writing both history and fiction is moral. […] [Such a] novel will make sense in a thematic or symbolic way and will […] produce closure” (236). 26 A preliminary survey suggested the conclusions that apart from retellings of Greek mythology and ancient works, or stories about time travel, there are only a few books for children with ancient themes; see, for example, Boulotis’s series on Pinocchio experiencing life in Ancient Athens or on Olympic Agon, the already evoked Ο Πινόκιο στεν Aθενα; Eleni Sarantiti, Ο κήπος με τ’ αγάλματα / O kepos me t’ agalmata [The garden with statues] (Ath- ens: Kastaniotis, 1980). One reason for this may be the aforementioned absence of regular teaching on Antiquity in the first years of elementary school. The decision to introduce

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conclusions beyond some questions for future research. Nikos Dimou (b. 1935), a famous Greek essayist, once said:

[Some Greeks] are like the sons of a famous philosopher who cannot understand his works, but who see that those who can respect these works and cherish them.27

Through this little aphorism Dimou provokes a series of questions, which, in the present socioeconomic crisis, are more pressing than ever. How is it possible to be a Modern Greek citizen without retaining an inferiority complex (or a “victim syndrome”)? How is it possible to avoid being overshadowed by the past? How is it possible to use Classical Antiquity to make oneself a better Greek, who not only stands in reverent silence among the ruins, but who also dares to converse with them, to question them, or even to refute them?28 Well, a good beginning, in my opinion, would be less emotional overtones, less politics, and more fun in books for children with ancient themes. Let them understand, the sooner the better, their privileged position among the ruins, and at the same time let them play among them, too.

Antiquity only to older children deprives younger children of the knowledge base needed to appreciate extracurricular books with ancient themes. 27 Nikos Dimou, H δυστυχία τoυ να είσαι Έλληνας / E dystychia tou na eisai Ellenas [The unhap- piness of being Greek] (Athens: Patakis, 2014), aphorism 53 on p. 30 (trans. P.K.). 28 Tassoula Tsilimeni, in an entry that sums up postwar Modern Greek literature for children, is openly optimistic, as she states that the “didactic element has virtually disap- peared”; see her “Greece. From 1945 to the Present,” in Hunt, International Companion Encyclopedia, vol. 2, 1069–1071. I hope she is right, although three more modest examples show the—at least partial—existence of an ideological trait in such texts. And—as the example raised by Robert Dunban proves—ideologised historical discourse quickly becomes dated and soon these books will be unreadable or not deliberately funny. See Robert Dunban, “Ireland and Its Children’s Literature,” in Meek, Children’s Literature and National Identity, 79–88.

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