ΕΑΝ ΠΡΟΤΙΜΑΤΕ ΕΛΛΗΝΙΚΑ ΠΑΤΕΣΤΕ ΤΗ ΣΗΜΑΙΑ ΣΤΟ ΚΑΤΩ ΜΕΡΟΣ ΤΗΣ ΟΘΟΝΗΣ

By Lambros Karpodinis

It is August 1922 in Smyrna, Asia Minor. The heat and humidity are oppressive. A figure dressed in black robes, his eyes red from tears and agony, is writing a letter to the Greek prime minister, now exiled in Paris—Eleftherios Venizelos, a close friend—describing the descent into Hades of Asia Minor’s Hellenism.

Meanwhile, outside his office, panic-stricken voices rise and fall at every rumor of hope or despair. Hundreds of thousands of Christians from Asia Minor’s interior have descended upon Smyrna, their possessions left behind, carrying family icons and elderly relatives on their backs, hoping for a ship that will take them to safety across the Aegean, to a Greek island. They have arrived at the famous Smyrna quay, where, in better days, women dressed in the latest Paris fashions strolled in the evenings, there to see and be seen. Now it seems as if that was a hundred years ago—another lifetime. Yet only two weeks have elapsed. Their world has been turned upside down.

The American ambassador to Smyrna, George Horton, ran to the Metropolitan’s office, urging him to leave. He even offered the use of his naval vessel, accompanied by a detachment of marines flying the neutral American flag, while there was still time. He offered to personally accompany the bishop. Horton also informed him that the new Turkish governor was Nuredin Pasha—a sworn enemy of the bishop.

Bishop Chrysostomos, in a calm and steady voice, while looking out his office window at the quay and the mass of humanity, said to him:
“My dear friend, I am grateful for your offer, but I cannot accept it. I cannot abandon my people. I must share their fate, whatever that may be.”

George Horton, taken aback by the refusal, tears in his eyes, shook the bishop’s hand as a sad thought crossed his mind: How terrible that I will not see this wonderful man again.

Smyrna, the jewel of the Levant, situated on the western coast of Asia Minor opposite the Greek island of Chios, was derided by the Turks as “giaur Izmir”—infidel Smyrna—because it contained a majority Christian population. Greeks were the predominant people, but the city was also populated by Jews, Armenians, Turks, and Levantines—European families native for generations, most of them very wealthy due to the tobacco trade. Smyrna was the brightest star on the Hellenic firmament of cities. Athens was a poor village compared to Smyrna. Thessaloniki was still majority Jewish, only recently liberated from the Turks. Constantinople, another city considered rightfully Greek, with a large Greek population, had lost its luster because of the Great War and the decline of its influence.

Smyrna was a different story. It had not been affected by the war. There were Turkish-instigated pogroms during the Great War, mostly against Armenians but also against Greeks; however, Smyrna was largely untouched and continued to thrive. Greeks were the wealthiest community. Exports from the interior—tobacco and agricultural products—arrived on camel trains from Arabia and by rail from elsewhere, producing untold wealth. Greeks built hospitals, churches, schools, academies, and orphanages; they lived in mansions and entertained themselves in theaters and the new-fangled cinemas. More than eighty cinemas operated in Smyrna. Luxury hotels and glamorous restaurants lined the waterfront. Gigantic clothing stores selling the latest fashions were frequented by women vying to outdo one another.

Then came even better news. The Allies had given Greece a mandate to occupy Smyrna, as Turkey—part of the defeated Central Powers—was being punished with territorial losses. Greeks were ecstatic. Smyrna and eastern Asia Minor were considered part of the Greek world, as much as the islands, Cyprus, or Attica itself. Greek civilization had flourished there for two and a half millennia. Though it had changed masters over the centuries, its Greek identity never faded. When the Greek army landed in 1919, Smyrna erupted in celebration. The city was draped in blue and white. The cross of the Greek flag had triumphed over the crescent of the Turkish one.

Bishop Chrysostomos himself, a fervent patriot, celebrated alongside his flock. Nuredin Pasha—his future executioner—was denounced by the bishop for his fanaticism and was forced to relinquish his position. Hatred immediately took root in Nuredin’s heart. He bided his time, looking toward the future and waiting for his revenge.

After the Greek landing, continuous raids by Turkish irregulars prompted the Greek army to expand its zone of occupation—so far that it could no longer sustain itself. Greece’s economy was exhausted after ten years of continuous war. Black clouds of despair gathered on the horizon. Elections were held, and Greece’s greatest statesman, Eleftherios Venizelos, was defeated. Meanwhile, King Constantine, who had been forced into exile by the Allies during the Great War for keeping Greece neutral, was restored to the throne. Venizelos had wanted Greece to enter the war on the Allied side, seeing an opportunity to expand Greek territory at Turkey’s expense, as Turkey had allied itself with Germany and Bulgaria.

After the king’s exile, Greece entered the war in 1917, around the same time as the United States. Its contribution proved crucial. Greek forces, alongside the French, defeated a large Bulgarian army, forcing Bulgaria to capitulate and severing the Central Powers’ lines of communication.

The war ended in 1918, and Greece was given the green light to enter Smyrna. The coming storm began when Venizelos lost the elections and the king returned. The Allies, still resentful toward Constantine, cut Greece’s financing and halted arms shipments, while simultaneously courting Mustafa Kemal, the dynamic leader of the Turkish nationalist movement.

By 1922, Greece was overextended deep in Asia Minor, having advanced toward Ankara, the rebel Turkish capital, hoping for an armistice. Great battles were fought along the Sakarya River, lasting more than two weeks. Ernest Hemingway was a reporter at the front and wrote of seeing “men in skirts”—the famous evzones—lying dead on the ground.

By late August, the Greek lines were ready to collapse. Panic spread. The front broke, and soldiers retreated in disorder, each man trying to save himself. Within two weeks, Turkish forces reached the outskirts of Smyrna.

Nuredin Pasha established himself in the governor’s mansion and immediately sent soldiers to bring the bishop to him. The bishop’s servants made one last attempt to persuade him to leave while there was still time. The bishop would not relent. The Church of Agia Fotini, Smyrna’s metropolis, had become a magnet for refugees. The bishop ordered a funeral service to be held there—for the imminent death of Hellenism. Funeral dirges were to continue without interruption, as the liturgy had once continued in Agia Sophia when Constantinople fell.

A detachment of soldiers came to the bishop’s residence. After removing his vestments, he put on his black rassa and went with them. He found Nuredin seated at his desk, his face sunburned from the August sun, his eyes burning with contempt. It was Saturday, August 27, 1922.

Nuredin spoke first: “So, papa, we meet again.”
The bishop did not answer.
“You are silent now,” Nuredin continued. “When the Greeks were here, you spoke against us—against your own country. You are a Turkish citizen. You are a traitor.”
“God is great,” the bishop replied.
“Allah is greater,” Nuredin answered, “because your God did not help the Greeks win. Not only did we defeat you in battle, but now we will uproot your entire race from our land.”

The windows were open, letting in the cool sea breeze—and with it, voices drawing nearer, voices filled with hatred, curses, and blood-curdling cries.

“You instigated great ruin for the Turks,” Nuredin continued. “But you made a great mistake by not leaving before we caught you. You armed the Greeks, organized resistance. You deserve to die. I swore to Allah that I would avenge Muslim blood, and He granted me the opportunity.”

Turning toward the window and the mob below, Nuredin said, “Do you hear them? They want revenge as much as I do. And I will give them satisfaction. You have one chance to save yourself. Convert to the true faith of Islam. What do you say?”

The bishop stood straight, feeling God’s grace and peace covering him like a warm blanket on a cold night.
“Christ’s Church and all of Hellenism,” he replied, “have sacrificed countless martyrs for faith and freedom. One more sacrifice—my old body—will make no difference. Let God’s will be done. I have been ready for this day all my life. I will never betray my Lord. Do to me what you must—but do it quickly. I will pray for you.”

He turned and walked out.

As he descended the stairs and reached the door, the crowd fell upon him. They struck him, kicked him, tore at his beard. Nuredin leaned out the window and shouted, “If he did good to you, do good to him. If he did bad to you, do bad to him.”

The mob stabbed, beat, and trampled him. All the while, the bishop prayed. He did not plead. He showed no sign of pain. Only tears ran down his cheeks—tears of peace, for he was about to meet the God he had served on earth.

The bishop’s martyrdom was only the beginning. Hundreds of thousands of Greeks and Armenians were burned in the flames that soon engulfed the city. Thousands drowned in the blue Aegean, trying to escape. Tens of thousands were sent to labor battalions in the interior, never to be seen again. Women and girls were taken as slaves. The elderly were shot where they stood.

An American missionary, Asa Jennings, arranged a truce that allowed Greek ships to evacuate the remaining refugees—nearly two million souls.

Two weeks after the Great Catastrophe, as it is still known in Greece, the famous Smyrna quay lay in ruins. The grand hotels, department stores, restaurants, and theaters were gone. A civilization that had endured for two and a half thousand years was no more.