The Etz Hayyim Synagogue in Chania, Crete: A light in the darkness of recent history

"We have tried at Etz Hayyim to be a small presence in the midst of what is at times almost aggressive ignorance..." 

This quote is from Nicholas Stavroulakis, historian, artist and archivist who has restored one of the two former synagogues in Chania back to life. 

On the day we visit in September 2015, there is still an intense heat. We walk past bright banks of bougainvillaea, garlanding the old brick walls and cascading down the sides of the small lanes. Eating houses compete with gift shops; with family homes but the synagogue set back in a closed lane is a quiet oasis deep in the back streets of the old Venetian port. 

Initially we had gone on Shabbat but it was closed. A few days later we return and it is open. Cats move sinuously through the shaded garden, into the cool interior of the synagogue and occupy cushions on the pews. While outside at a table in the shade the imam talks quietly with visitors and drinks cups of peppermint tea. A steady flow of visitors appears through the open gate in the wall, mainly retirees in holiday clothes from cruise ships at anchor outside the harbour. Americans, Europeans and some Israelis. Most are charmed and interested in the building; its story of underlying tragedy, absorbing the longevity of its previous history as a centre and anchor here. A once thriving Jewish community.There is a sense of pride for Jewish visitors to Etz Hayyim in its renaissance. We are also humbled by what this represents. A victory in the darkness of ignorance.

A few visitors, on finding it is not orthodox and is open to all comers get in a snot as if exposed to something unclean. There is something sad, old and stale in the way they flounce out, outraged by this presence, something so beautiful and purifying. Others fire rapid questions at the caretaker/guide in Hebrew, French, Greek, English and German. She is a calm, beautiful Australian, impassioned about her charge. She answers thoughtfully, erudite, factual, weaves strands of a story that is both heart breaking and inspiring. "Out of the original community of over three hundred at the outbreak of World War Two, and following the German occupation of Crete, only seven returned to Crete at the war's end. Yes this building was stolen, squatted, desecrated, used as a barn for animals, a rubbish tip and even urinal." 

It was as if two thousand years of the history of a complex, rich community could within a few days be made invisible. As if it had never existed. Then through the insult of indifference, be further eradicated by the "almost aggressive ignorance." Yet in the surrounding lanes and houses shadows remain to remind us of the lives lived around these stones; in and out of these doors; under these pipes and tiles; even the very layers of dust piled into the darkened corners and under eaves, under windows opening out into the fresh and smokey air of the city/port. These cry of a life once lived with joy at the dawning birth of each day;a sun arisen. So with hope, Mr Stravroulakis and others in the Chania and wider community, rebuilt, cleaned, breathed new life into an ancient and battered place. Despite the arson attempts, this building was restored to its original purpose and then taken further, made stronger To remind us, the visitors, that never again should such things be allowed to happen. Nor should such things that have happened be forgotten.

Without the vision and hard work of Nicholas Stravroulakis and those who assisted on this project, this would not have become a memorial. And I beg to differ, rather than a small presence-it is a powerful symbol of renewal and hope. As well as a deeply moving memorial for a people who only recently, lived, breathed, loved and moved through the streets surrounding Etz Hayyim.

*Stained Glass, Montparnasse Cemetery, Paris 2015. Out of respect visitors are asked not to take photographs inside the synagogue and its grounds.

CHANIA 

History twists at your guts

See! It has happened

Nothing will change this imprint

Though not all of it is yet complete

Nor clear, of things that can be explained

…And let alone, understood

I stand in the shade of this building

A synagogue on a hot day

And I do not, I cannot pray

Over three thousand years

Erased

It sinks, a big stone

Under a sea of human grief

Voices, each unique, drown, fade

Or call from a depth I cannot reach

And only small words survive

If at all, maybe only fragments

That I do not know…are still carried by the tide

To tell us of…what happened, here

How could such a thing as this be?

And what may have been

If this rich tapestries of lives had continued

To breathe and love and work and fight 

And die in other ways than this

It is something to exterminate an entire community
It is something to sink to the bottom of the sea so much that is such

In that shadow, a child whispers
Others play in the square in front of the church
Kick a football, skip and sing

Beneath that tree, an old person groans

And in the light that falls from outside

A fisherman’s shout as he makes land
A woman teaches a neighbour to cook

And from such a sparsity of words

We start a whole story or so we try

“Seven people returned here out of

A community of three hundred”

If I could name the two hundred and ninety three 

who did not, I would
If I could say the names
Of those who drowned
I should, each and every one

And at Etz Hayyim each year 9 June
One by one they are named
Each one remembered

It is if I think hard enough 

This rock will crack and part and empty

And I will understand

This absence, why this should be

Where have those lovers gone?

The blind, the lame and the vain?
Where are the ones who fell out over stupid things

Those who always believed there was a tomorrow

The pious who came here to bow and in Hebrew spoke to their God
And in Greek spoke of their love of life

And those who brought groceries

Gossiped, grasped and gave to charity

Or met their children from school

Or sat by the harbour drinking coffee in the heat

Until the sun turned red and bled across the ocean

Washing bone mixed with stone, shell and sand

On this day, I place a stone on the white tomb

Of a rabbi long dead but who once stood shawled

In this house of shared prayer and sang
Such is the song of eternal love

Oh that this should be a rock, a mountain of remembrance
Or that this should be a house of eternal remembrance

Oh so many pebbles of grief of those never laid at rest

But trapped, sank to the bottom of the sea

And I grieve, I remember and I grieve

Chania September 2015
I thank Dr Alexandra Ariotti for her sharing of this story