Agios Isidoros isn’t the only part of Greece, or the world, to burn an effigy of Judas Iscariot as part of their reenactment of the story of the Passion. There are many regional variations from village to village, island to island, town to town, each with their own twist. But they do have some things in common. Enough that, every year, many of the villages on the island compete to see who can stack their bonfire the highest. In my heart, the one in Agios Isidoros always wins.
Winner of The Letter Review Prize for Nonfiction
Playing With Fire
I’m 10 years old, and the bachelors of the village of Agios Isidoros1 have already built the pyre. My family lives on the north part of the island of Rhodes, in town, so we’ve had to drive for a bit to get here. But it’s worth it. Because once we arrive, I spot it, the pyre they’ll be burning Easter Sunday, just waiting to be lit. Metaphorically, Judas burns there. Literally, he’ll burn in the village square. Both Judas and his metaphorical pyre will be ignited after the proclamation of the Resurrection.
His effigy looks like a scarecrow swinging from a gallows. More attention has been paid to making him flammable than making him pretty. The honour of burning him will go to the bachelor next to marry, as this man won’t be allowed to participate in the building of the pyre once he’s wed. Agios Isidoros isn’t the only part of Greece, or the world, to burn an effigy of Judas Iscariot as part of their reenactment of the story of the Passion. There are many regional variations from village to village, island to island, town to town, each with their own twist. But they do have some things in common. Enough that, every year, many of the villages on the island compete to see who can stack their bonfire the highest. In my heart, the one in Agios Isidoros always wins.
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I’m 21 years old, and living in Canada. I’ve just finished my second semester at the University of Toronto, and am heading to Montreal to celebrate Easter with my family there. My brother Michael is bringing his girlfriend he met at York. Mine can’t make it, but my family’s met her before. Old news. This one is new. Her name is Morgan, and she’s nice. She’s skinny as a twig and wears jackets two sizes too big, but she’s nice. On Easter Sunday, she joins us in church. The Resurrection is proclaimed, service concludes, and we step outside. She’s very confused when the firecrackers start going off.
“What the hell was that?”
“Firecrackers,” Michael answers.
Fweeeeeeeeee… BANG!
“And fireworks apparently. Cops here don’t usually like that.”
“Is this, like, traditional?”
“Not officially. But people tend to set things off once they start singing Christos anesti2. You alright?”
“Yeah, no, I’m fine. Religion in the Prairies is just, y’know, kinda boring? Nothing like this.”
“This is toned down. They have to be careful not to make too much noise, or the police will step in. You should see what they get up to back home.”
“Really?”
“Oh yeah. Hold on…”
He pulls out his phone and searches for a video. A minute or two later, he shows us. To understand the landscape, imagine a croissant on a plate. The croissant is the land, and the plate is the sea. The actual settlement is in the middle. People are throwing explosives from the ends of the croissant. In the video, it’s nighttime, yet the scene is repeatedly lit up by fireworks streaking through the sky.
“There’s these two small churches that face each other on opposite hills. So, every Easter, two teams gather on either side, lighting firecrackers, fireworks, explosives, and they compete to see who can be the loudest.”
The sound of the fireworks in the video is drowned out by the fireworks across the street. I’m dumbfounded.
“What the fuck? Where?” I ask. I’ve never heard of this before.
“Kalymnos.”
“Of course it’s fucking Kalymnos,” I say. Those guys are crazy. They chuck dynamite off cliffs. Fourth of July has nothing on them.
“I think Pappou’s3 dad was from there.”
“That looks crazy,” says Morgan.
“That’s Greece for you.”
“Religion,” I explain, “is largely an excuse to fuck around.”
I regret telling her this. I think I gave her the wrong idea.
◈
I’m about nine years old. I haven’t moved to Canada yet. My brother and I are sitting on a bench, waiting for soccer practice to start. We’re early. Besides us, only one other boy has shown up. He’s a great soccer player. We suck. Easter is coming up, and my brother and I are at that age where Greek boys start wanting to light fireworks. Luckily, this other boy knows all about them. He’s only a year older, but he’s got a wealth of knowledge to share, and he is happy to do so.
“The stick-looking ones, the reds and the yellows, you strike like a match. You only have a bit of time, so don’t hold on, throw. There’s a delay, but it’s not forever, so don’t forget. Oh, also, reds are stronger than yellows. Neither of them has a fuse, so again, be quick. You can get the ones with fuses if you want a bit more safety, but they tend to be stronger and more expensive. If you want, you can rip the fuse off one and make your own by combining the powders from multiple, but that’s not really movable. Fishing stores are good places to buy if you want some more basic ones, but you’ll have to look to other stores that bring ‘em in seasonally if you want something fancier. Some places won’t sell to kids, so maybe ask someone older if that’s the case. The little pea-sized ones are the safest, but they’re really quiet. You just have to throw them on the ground to ignite them, but they’ll be drowned out by everyone else almost immediately.”
Michael is enthralled. He hangs on every word and is making plans in his mind for us to go buy firecrackers even as we’re sitting on that bench. I’m not entirely convinced though.
“I’m just worried. What if I don’t throw it in time?”
“Well you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”
“No, I want to! But I’m scared.”
“Well, it doesn’t hurt that bad.”
“Getting your fingers blown off doesn’t hurt that bad?”
“I lost some toes.”
“What? No you didn’t!”
“Yeah I did. I dropped one on my foot when I was a kid. Well, you know what I mean.”
“I don’t believe you,” I say, and look at Micheal. He doesn’t either.
“Show us.”
When he doesn’t, we say that that’s just proof that he’s lying. Finally, he relents. He takes his right shoe and then his right sock off. Michael and I take a closer look. We can’t believe what we’re seeing. Where his second and third toes should be, there’s nothing. The space where they should be is smooth skin.
“And you still light firecrackers?!”
“I dropped it because I wasn’t paying attention. I pay attention now.”
“You’re crazy, man. Cool, but crazy.”
“…”
“So what’s it like missing toes?” I ask, and immediately regret it. I see his face darken.
“It’s okay. Balance is mostly fine. I can walk normal. But it makes more complicated stuff harder. I’d probably be a better player if I still had them.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, don’t be. It doesn’t bother me.”
I can tell he’s lying.
This will be the first year my brother and I light firecrackers.
◈
I’m 19, and still living in Montreal with my mom and grandma. It’s Easter Sunday. We’re headed to church. My grandma’s carrying a lantern so that we can safely bring the Holy Fire back home. One future Easter Sunday, Michael and I will try to explain the Holy Fire to Morgan.
“Basically, there’s this one cave in Jerusalem that the Orthodox priests go into on Holy Saturday, with, like, one unlit candle, and when they walk out, it’s lit. They say by God.”
“What? How?” she’ll ask.
“Miracle.”
“No…”
“Seriously,” I’ll say. “Then the flame gets on a plane and books it to all the Orthodox churches in the world. They distribute it Easter Sunday.”
“Distribute?”
“Basically, everyone crams into the church holding a Paschal candle. Like a regular candle, but bigger. Anyway, at some point during the night, the service stops, the lights go out, and the priest lights the candles of the people in front of him, and they their neighbours, and they their neighbours, and so on, until the church, which was but a minute ago dark and shrouded, is filled with light. Christ resurrected, death defeated, Christos anesti!” We will neglect to mention that this is usually when all the firecrackers tend to go off.
Back in the now of 19-year-old me, before Morgan, we can’t get into the church. It’s too full. I’m standing in the doorway, watching. And then I see it. The light spreading, woman to man to child and back, young and old alike, and soon, so quickly it defies belief, everyone and everything is bathed in preternatural light.
Fire is transporting. It doesn’t matter if it comes from an oil lamp or a BIC lighter or a forest fire. And seeing this, this miracle, not being in it, but through the distance of the doorway, I am transformed. I don’t believe in God, but seeing this, I now understand why people do.
◈
I’m 12 years old, and about to jump over a fire. It’s the custom of Klidonas. Essentially, on the 24th of June, on the celebration of Agios Giannis4, everyone gets together and burns the now-dry flower wreaths they’d made on May Day. And then they jump over the fire they just made. Supposedly, this protects them for the year. I want to do it, but I’m scared. What if I trip? I shudder at the thought of being scorched by fire. I grit my teeth, take a running start, and jump. I land on my feet. I not only feel protected, I feel invincible. I get in line so I can do it again.
◈
In recent years, the custom of Klidonas has waned in popularity. Collecting flowers for May wreaths is a privilege for those close enough to nature to do so. And cities aren’t likely to have the open space necessary to practice this tradition safely. Urbanization is slowly killing it. And this is a shame. These traditions, they have incredible spiritual value. Not only do they connect you to your community and your ancestors, they connect you to time itself. You get to see yourself as only one minute link in a chain stretching back through the ages. There were many before, and there will ever be more after. Each ritual, each flame lit at different times for different reasons and in different ways serves to force you to notice time passing. It grounds you in the seasons, in your mind, in the natural milestones of life.
I’ll speak a bit on the burning of Judas now. I know that this might seem, well, medieval to outsiders, but I’ll try to defend my compatriots here. Fundamentally, the effigy can’t feel anything. The purpose of the tradition is not to hurt it. The purpose of it is, well, the purpose of any burnt effigy. The evil villain at the end of a typical Hollywood movie, that suffers the predictable horrible fate of their own making, is nothing but an effigy. We watch them burn, because we want to see the traits they represent punished. We want to display, both to ourselves, and to the world, what we abhor. That it is a metaphorical construct that we’re tearing down, rather than a literal one, makes no difference. It is what we decide to burn, or allow to burn, that reveals our values.
◈
I’m 20 years old, and my home island is burning. Wildfires have been raging for days. The government has systematically failed to offer our fire departments enough support for years. They were warned this would happen, and it has. Volunteers do everything they can. Rhodes isn’t the only one affected, but my heart shatters for it above all. I watch online, as the authorities give real-time updates on which villages should be evacuated over Twitter. Hundreds flee their homes. I sit in my room in Montreal, feeling absolutely useless. But then, if I was there, what would I do? I’m no firefighter, certainly no hero. What could I possibly do?
I have no answer. I check the internet frantically, looking for maps, updates. Is the island’s natural butterfly sanctuary, that miracle of nature, safe? The fires were headed towards it. Were they diverted? And so what if they were? This will happen again. And as the years grow warmer, it’ll only happen more and more frequently. Higher temperatures will only make these wildfires more destructive. We can’t win out every time. If it is what we allow to burn that reveals our values, what does it mean that we accept that the very Earth on which we live burns again and again?
Eventually, we’ll have to decide what it is we value. I only hope we light the right flame.
- (lit. Saint Isidore).
↩︎ - Christos anesti is the hymn sung to announce the Resurrection.
↩︎ - “Pappou” means grandpa in Greek. Greek speakers will often not translate the word when speaking another language for much the same reason that Spanish speakers do the same with “abuela.”
↩︎ - (lit. St. John).
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Nikos Alexakos is a student at the University of Toronto, where he studies English, creative writing, and studio art. Born to a Greek father and Canadian mother, he has lived in Canada since he was 14 years old. He writes both fiction and nonfiction, and sometimes illustrates his stories.