North Aegean Stories

Women and Memory in Molyvos: reflections on a living past

These reflections on memory and the women of her family in the context of Molyvos’ lived space are offered by Rallou Kralli-Konstantellis.

“The past is not dead; it is not even past,” writes American author William Faulkner.[1] The German philosopher Martin Heidegger called it an “imposition”—the quality of coming into a world of meanings and practices that we did not create, but which we must accept as our own. [2] Unlike stones, which simply exist through time, humans and their existence are characterized by “temporariness.” We are “temporary” and “historical” because our very existence compels us to define ourselves in the present and project ourselves into the future in relation to this history.

Given this balancing act among past, present, and future, every narrator, as Egyptologist Jan Assmann tells us, appropriates the stories of “others” while searching for their true selves and exploring their origins, since “a person’s origin is not the origin of an ego, but the relationship of that ego to countless other voices behind it.” [3]

What role, I wonder, did the women of my past play in this dance of memory? What role does their memory play in shaping my individual and our collective identity? My life experience and my reading of history tell me that it is mainly women who transform everyday life into a symbolic system that is expressed verbally through traditions, by means of a set of everyday actions and behaviors, seasonal customs and religious rituals, narratives and fairy tales, symbols and symbolism.

It is women who bring all these things together in a lived place and in collective memory.

Metropolitan Dionysios Karamitsas, whose name is inscribed on the marble lintel of the Church of the Taxiarchis in Mithymna, belonged to the family of my ancestors. He served as metropolitan from 1774 to 1801. In addition to rebuilding the church of the Taxiarchis of Mithymna in 1795, which had been destroyed by fire, he founded, among other things, the girls’ school next to the church. Today, only the chiseled stones of the entrance, scattered on the overgrown plot, indicate that something important once stood there. Initially, only daughters of wealthy families attended this school, among them my maternal grandmother, Athanasia Kyriakou Kazazi-Karamitsa. She is the little girl sitting cross-legged in this photograph below from 1896. The education of girls activated a very deep memory from the time of Sappho and her school for women. Despite the disruptions and gaps of centuries, we will encounter it again in 1530, at the “Women’s School” in the Holy Monastery of Panagia Myrsiniotissa, the only school for girls in the Greek world at the time, founded by Saint Ignatios Agallianos. At the “Women’s School,” girls were taught reading, writing, mathematics, music, and handicrafts. The two schools founded by Saint Ignatios contributed to the awakening of the national consciousness in Lesbos, on the run up to the end of Ottoman rule. [4]

Athanasia Kyriakou Kazazi-Karamitsa with her schoolmates in Molyvos in the year 1896. Archive: KFL, sub-fond: Rallou A. Krallis.
Stamp of the traveling photographer who captured Athanasia and her schoolmates. Archive: KFL, sub-fond: Rallou A. Krallis.

At the age of 18, Athanasia was engaged and married in the church of Agia Kyriaki, as evidenced in this other photograph. Nikolaos Kazazis Karamitsas, who was 20 years her senior. Nikolas was descendant of the wealthy landowner and merchant Dimitrios Karamitsas, brother of the Metropolitan Dionysios, the very same man who built the girls’ school where my grandmother learned to read and write, in one of those twists of fate and randomness that moves the world.

My mother, the daughter of Athanasia, Eleni Kazazi-Karamitsa-Kralli, also attended this very same school, which operated until around the eve of World War II, as evidenced by photographs (figs. d and e) from 1924 and 1928. But change came with the 1912 and the integration of the island in the Greek state. As shown in another photograph (fig. e) education was now accessible to all social classes.

Our gaze then falls on yet another photograph, that of my paternal grandmother, Dorothea Abatzis – Kralli, who graduated with honors in 1893 from the “Omiros Girls School” in Smyrna, which, together with the Evangelical School for Boys, offered a level of education comparable to that of similar European schools. In that school he was taught Greek language, literature, mathematics, physics and chemistry, geography and history, music, English, and French.

The women in my house were literate and read books that arrived in their library as orders or gifts from Western Europe, Constantinople, and Smyrna. This memory f a family history of reading provides an answer to a fundamental element of my identity: my love of books. Every time I leaf through the 1802 edition of Erotokritos in the Leipzig edition preserved in our library, I return to their world.

Athanasia Kyriakou Kazazi with Nikolaos Karamitsas. Archive: KFL, sub-fond: Rallou A. Krallis.
The wedding of Athanasia and Nikolaos at Hagia Kyriaki. Archive: KFL, sub-fond: Rallou A. Krallis.
Dorothea Abatzi among her family. Archive: KFL, sub-fond: Rallou A. Krallis.
An 1802 Leipzig edition of Erotokritos from the family library. Archive: KFL, sub-fond: Rallou A. Krallis.

How does modern person adapt to the fluid conditions of our globalized village? How do I adapt to the taxing conditions that surround me today? The only answer is “By preserving my identity, my individual and collective memory; by trying to make it fit in the dominant shiftiness of the ephemeral and the temporary.”

In my house, built in 1739, with its history of roughly 300 years, the memory of my ancestors, especially the women, dominates. The traces this past connect me to my ancestors over a long period of time, creating a deep debt to the values they bequeathed to me and a duty to resist whichever television satrap attempts, with cheapness and audacity, to suggest to me that our moment calls for us to throw the past in the trash heap in order to call ourselves modern.

When night spreads its blanket and human voices fade into the darkness of sleep, that is the time I like to sit in the peace of the world, in my corner, and read. Calm, knowing that no one will distract me. It is at these times that I feel this house of spirits, invisible, come to life and the gazes of my ancestors, great-grandparents, and grandparents embrace me from their frames and encourage me to keep going even when things are difficult. I look across at the photograph of my grandmother Dorothea, who was a folk singer and adored Palamas, watching me as I read with her strong gaze and nodding approvingly. I close my eyes then and whisper to them: “May your memory be blessed, thank you for everything you gave me. Rest in peace. As long as I, my children, and my grandchildren live, you will live with us. Memory is not something that belongs exclusively to the past. “Yesterday is still unfolding.”

[1] William Faulkner, Requiem for a Nun (London: Chatto & Windus, 1919), 85

[2] Heidegger, M., Sein und Zeit. Tübingen, μετάφραση Γ. Τζαβάρα: Είναι και χρόνος, (Δωδώνη 1978-85).

[3] Assmann Jan, Η πολιτισμική μνήμη, γραφή, ανάμνηση και πολιτιστική ταυτότητα στους πρώϊμους ανώτερους πολιτισμιούς (Πανεπιστημιακές Εκδόσεις Κρήτης, 2017)

[4] Ιωάννη Κ. Μουτζούρη, Η Καλλονή της Λέσβου – Συμβολή στη Μελέτη της Ιστορίας και της Παιδείας της (Έκδοση Δήμου Καλλονής: Αθήνα, 1996).