About
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My name is Alexandros Pagidas, son of Michail, brother of Asimakis. I was born in Athens, Greece, in an upper middle class family, in times of peace. All the turbulent episodes of my country’s history had come to an end. I never starved or came close to it; always had a home and never felt insecure regarding the necessities of life. I went to good private schools; I finished a Bachelor’s and a Master’s degree in Philosophy; I enjoyed sports, hobbies, vacations and the chance to visit other countries. Both of my parents had finished college and travelled to more countries than most people I knew. They had lived in the United States, and knew what life is in another country other than their own. Back in Greece, my father got a good job and my mother could always get one (and many times she did), but mainly focused on raising us, a job that its immense value is often overlooked because it is not paid. Both did their best to raise us with love and proper guidance, and helped us find what we wanted to become instead of imposing their own expectations of what they thought was right. In short, they did a very good job raising us, and any mistakes were unintended.
Their life was not that easy. They were born in poverty under difficult times. Food wasn’t always enough for everybody, and at times their parents didn’t eat so they could. The political situation wasn’t as peaceful either. The civil war had divided the country; their fathers ended up in exile due to their political beliefs, and because some snitch had falsely blamed them for something they didn’t do. My parents had to work their way through college in a foreign country (they studied in the United States) far away from home and people they loved, sometimes in two jobs, and get good grades for scholarships in order to afford tuition and living expenses.
For my grandparents, whom I had the honour and privilege to meet, it was even worse. Born after the First World War, both of my grandfathers in a young and delicate age were caught up in forced migrations from Asia Minor, where some of their sisters, brothers and even fathers, were killed, sometimes in front of their very eyes. Leaving their homes and possessions, they ended up in utter destitution; some of them had to combine the reciting of improvised poetry that spoke of their hunger accompanied by begging in order to survive. They were viewed with suspicion from mainland Greeks, and things were tough. And as if this wasn’t enough, just after they had managed to build up from their destitution, the Second World War broke out. My grandfather Asimakis went to the front to fight the Fascist invaders, the other stayed at home, trying to secure the essentials for his family in myriads of ways, often with desperate measures. Then came the German Occupation and the Resistance. Truly cinematic experiences that most of the time didn’t have a happy ending. My grandfather’s father, though old, died because of the great famine that struck the cities during the occupation. People were literally scavenging for scraps of food in the garbage cans. Friends were shot by the German occupiers in retaliation against acts by the Resistance. There were happy endings too; true stories that sound as if they were taken from romantic novels. My grandmother Eirini travelled illegally using a small boat with sails during the German occupation of Crete after her father died, because she had made a lover’s promise to my grandfather Asimakis, that when her father had died, whom she was taking care of, she would leave to come and find him in Piraeus. My grandfather Alexandros escaped from the island in which he was exiled, in a boat behind sacks of rotten potatoes; at early dawn, he knocked on the door of his house: “Who is it?” my grandmother Theodora asked. “An exiled” said my grandfather in a tired voice. “It’s dad!” screamed my mother recognizing his voice immediately as my grandmother fainted. Another day, when there was only enough for their children to eat, my grandmother Theodora told my grandfather that after he put the children to bed he should come to the kitchen for a special meal. She had laid out plates and utensils for a three course dinner. My grandfather, surprised, sat at the table waiting for the food. Then my grandmother took the spoon and said “First, we pretend we’re eating soup…” bringing tears and laughter to an otherwise desperate situation.
A wealth of true stories filled with suffering and liberation; hope and despair, passed on via the oral tradition to their grandchildren, where, as I can personally attest, they remain engraved as lessons learned without the scars that go with them; a reminder of who we are and where we come from. And it wasn’t just the grandparents; it was the uncles, cousins, aunts, godfathers, their parents and so on. All had their story to tell; their treasure of experiences to share, and whom my father insisted on meeting, even though at the time I couldn’t realize their worth and was sometimes plagued by boredom. Family ties in Greece were always strong, loving and important. Though suffocating at times, they form the safety net for difficult times and new, bold ventures.
On the back of my mind, yet always ever present in the forms of ruins and constant references – the Ancient Greeks. The giants of Western, indeed World, civilization. “Who are you?” whispered all the temples and ancient theatres. How could you possibly measure up to Homer, Heraclitus, Socrates, Plato, Aristotle, Aeschylus, Sophocles, Euripides, Pheidias, Iktinos, Kallikratis, Praxitelis, Sappho, Archilochus, Pythagoras, Archimedes, Euclid, Hippocrates, Pericles, Themistocles, Leonidas, Herodotus, Thucydides, and Alexander, just to mention a few. The glory of the past burdened us with an unconscious yet all-embracing guilt for being too shallow, too mediocre, almost barbarians compared to them. Modern Greece, emerging as an independent nation after 400 years of occupation under the Ottoman Empire was surely something different – but sometimes one with keen eyes could see sparks of genius making some intermittent appearances that resembled ancient glories. We should not underestimate the impact a people’s history has on their present consciousness. It may not necessarily reproduce a Plato, but it has a subtle yet concrete influence that goads some individuals to greatness. A greatness they believe is their rightful inheritance provided they pay the necessary tax: careful study and consistent effort.
I have always been reminded by a big number of people, that had I been born in different circumstances, I would not have been the same person, nor would I express the same opinions. For those people, the validity of my opinions doesn’t have to do with whether they are true, but is shifted to something that I cannot change, nor had any choice in selecting. Such a remark makes truth a matter of circumstance and opinion a determined consequence rather than a creative response. It also creates an unbridgeable gulf between us, and, if supplied with a tender heart like my own, a sort of guilt for being treated favourably by fortune. Many times I have wondered whether I should plunge myself forcibly into destitution so as to silence these persons forever. But even then, one could still say that I would bear and respond differently to destitution given my beneficial upbringing, and have an easier time escaping it. Never mind the shock it would cause, given my past. What is important is my inescapable and unalterable beneficial upbringing; but in the end, this is merely the excuse those people give themselves for their own plight. Despair has a way of declaring its existence as a product of fate unchangeable by the will of man. But this, as the stories of my family demonstrate, is flatly false. They were plunged in despair, yet broke through with hope. They didn’t respond with resignation, but with perseverance. I don’t have to fight the battles they fought because they won. This gives me the freedom to fight battles that are nobler; not triggered by my stomach but my soul. It is my due to them, not to repeat their battles, but try to win the war of existence, to achieve peace and the good life, for myself and others.
Existence doesn’t need to be a war. We make it so, with the attitudes we choose towards it. I am not denying there is suffering. I am affirming that the way we respond to suffering profoundly changes its meaning – indeed it is fundamental in supplying it with one. “Those who have a why in life can bear almost any how” writes Nietzsche insightfully. Yet, even though it affects the way we view and live in the world, are we ever taught of the ways one can respond to suffering? Of the infinite possibilities of existence? Hardly. Have you ever heard on the news that some individuals, like Epictetus, have found ways to minimize it to a great extent, without having to buy anything, and how others, like the Buddha, claim there is a way to overcome it altogether? Why do they tell us to work so much for so little? Why do they tell us to obey, when we can learn to command? Why do they tell us we are free, when we are not? Why don’t they show us how to become free, creative and happy? Why don’t they show us the Way?
Despite all the fanfare, the declarations of politicians, the powerful institutions that affect our lives, the answer, simple and elusive because of its obviousness, is that they don’t know. They think they know but they don’t. The first step in outgrowing one’s own ignorance is to acknowledge it. “I know that I don’t know” that is the legacy of Socrates. Who are “they”? They are the ones that give solutions that do not solve the problems. They are the ones that offer alleviations instead of cures. They are the ones that give you a fish, instead of teaching you how to fish – most of the times because they don’t know how to teach you, and the remaining times because they want to keep this knowledge to themselves, making you dependent and subordinate to them. Do not look very far; we have all been “they” at one point or another in our lives. But it is not the solution, it is not the cure, and a fish is enjoyed fully only among equals.
The Way exists and had I been born in different circumstances I may never have realized it. It leads to the solution, the cure, and to universal love among equals. It leads to the cessation of needless suffering, the attainment of wisdom, and the good life.
We are all born in different circumstances, in different places at the foot of the mountain. Thus we all have to tread our own Way. But the summit is one and the same for all. The more we ascend the mountain of truth, the more common do our views become, the more understanding and loving do we become of one another. The striking similarities between wise men and women of all ages, of different cultures and languages, are not accidental. Truth is common. The absolute truth, absolutely common.
I am treading my own path, trying to learn from the ones before me and teach the ones after me, what I find with the ones next to me. On my websites you’ll find some of my findings and I hope they might help you on your way up. But you should not depend on me, becoming subordinate. Rely on yourself, and become free. As you read my words, on the back of your mind you should hear my voice whispering: “This is my Way. Where is yours?”
Let’s meet at the top, enjoy that fish together.
