Summary

The text recounts the personal and legal struggle of Georgios Tsambounieris, son of Ioannis, as he seeks justice for his father's untimely death due to a longstanding feud between families in Karpathos, ultimately leading to a courtroom victory that feels hollow in the face of his loss.

Abstract

Georgios Tsambounieris, deeply affected by the tragic death of his father Ioannis, stands as a witness and plaintiff in a court case that has the entire island of Karpathos in anticipation. The feud, which predates his birth, has cast a shadow over the island and shaped the lives of its inhabitants, including Georgios's own. Despite the defendants' pleas of innocence, Georgios's impassioned plea for justice resonates within the courtroom, leading to a guilty verdict and a bittersweet victory that does little to ease the pain of his father's absence. The judgement includes an order for reparations, which Georgios rejects, symbolizing his pursuit of honor over material compensation. The narrative is a poignant reflection on the impact of violence, the complexity of family legacies, and the relentless quest for justice.

Opinions

The author conveys a deep sense of personal loss and a strong desire for justice, emphasizing the emotional toll of the feud on the community and individual families.
There is an underlying resentment towards the perceived inadequacy of the legal system's response to the gravity of the situation, despite the guilty verdict.
The text suggests that the author views the reparations offered as insufficient and almost insulting, given the severity of the crimes committed against his father.
The narrative reflects a sense of duty to honor the memory and dignity of the author's father, Ioannis, which transcends the legal outcome.
The author expresses a complex relationship with the community, acknowledging their role in the ongoing feud while also recognizing their support during the trial.
The mention of the defendants' gaze and the community's reaction to the verdict indicates a mix of intimidation, respect, and perhaps a lingering fear of the feud's continuation.
The author's reference to biblical Samson suggests a feeling of overwhelming anger and a sense of righteous indignation fueling his quest for justice.
The final sentiment expresses that while the courtroom victory is significant, it is ultimately "Not Enough" to compensate for the loss of the author's father and the ongoing impact of the feud.

Courthouse; Pigadia, Karpathos. Image courtesy of the author.

Not Enough

All my years, those years left to us to live honourably by those we have loved, whose years were amputated, taken from us before their time, I’d always heard the rumours.

I heard the broken words spoken about their lives, their achievements, even their idiosyncrasies, those peculiarities that love of family mellowed to a fine wine, in the casks of time and the coffins of the silenced. No matter their faults, no walking breathing soul should have had to endure what he did, but he did and the fallout affects my village to this day.

As much as my parents tried to protect us, even if not more from their own pain, I knew what had happened, the village knew, therefore I was not exempt, I am my village.

My uncles early demise, affected my father, it changed him, as ST. John the Forerunner, my fathers heart screamed in the wilderness of his soul for the righteousness of justice.

The feud had begun before I was born.

Two opposing families that would clash as the Titans, the setting an island of antiquity — that Homer wrote about in the tragic lines of the Iliad, my home. Forces that clashed, one in the memory of their lost and one who with blood on their hands now had set their evil eyes upon my father.

And we, my fathers children, are inheritors of the Feud.

A tale as old as time, but true, I was there, a witness.

During the night sleep could not herd my thoughts nor contain them within the colonnaded forums where dreams rewrite our worries and fears. Sleep evaded me, just as justice had evaded the innocent.

I had arrived early, mother could not be with me that day, maybe it was for the best, the divine having mercy upon her to not relive the anguish, protecting her somewhat from her own memories, that were more vividly pronounced at this time in our lives.

I had arrived early, I stood in the back of our one roomed courtroom in Pigadia.

It was windy and the lights on the portico swung to-and-fro, rattling in time with the beats of my heart. I look back on that day and it seems as though the lights had been dimmed for effect.

The courtroom was filled to capacity, there was no seating available, not that I’d have sat, I was anxious and worried at what I had to do.

This was not about me and yet it was all about who I am, who I’ve become today, it was very personal, It was for vengeance through the halls of justice.

Many of my islanders were there, some for petty disagreements others out of curiosity, following the proceedings in search of gossip to share in their otherwise mundane lives.

I was there for my father, my father, my father, who was my heaven!

The panel of judges had been flown in from our neighboring island of Rhodes — for the sake of impartiality, I scoff at that premise, all of Rhodes and the Dodecanese knew of the history.

The panel of judges followed the statements of a defendant carefully as I waited in the back of the courtroom.

I waited deathly still/silent but some of those in attendance began to notice my presence, they nudged their neighbors besides them and the hush was broken on the whispers of war. Awareness intensified the proceedings.

I ignored them, I was there for a purpose, I had no inclination to be a part of their petty idolization of those that held power in their hands. I stepped out into the corridor and bought myself a cup of strong Turkish coffee, as I waited to be called upon.

Time was punishing in its sluggishness, it would not pass soon enough.

I don’t remember what I was thinking, I was cocooned in a halo of pain that kept pummeling my psyche with the force of stampeding rivalry. I was wearing holes into the marble tiles of the courtroom floor, when from the hierarchy of my pain I heard a most beloved name being called…

“Georgios Tsambounieris — son of Ioannis”,

I took a long fortifying breath and entered the courtroom. I was dressed from head to foot in the black of mourning and my death spikes beat a staccato as I made my way to the plaintiffs cubicle, the defendants were already there watching my progress, staring intimidating holes through me — HA!

The air was sucked out of the room as I stated to the judges that, “Georgios son of Ioannis, my father has expired…”

I heard the anguished whispers of those sitting behind me in the pews, their anguish could not crown the devastation those words bought to me because I was dying inside too, but for myself my father was not gone, he was their beside me, my hero, I was keeping him alive. I was holding onto his dignity by the hemoragging skin of my teeth.

The panel of judges knew my father well, some could not look me in the eye, some pursed their lips in sorrow, some, some, some — not enough!

They reviewed the case file that lay before them, the one of the many assaults to my father’s person — his person, now resting, not but forty day’s, in the hospitable earth of my village not so far away.

The defendants each were called to make a plea for themselves— innocent, they pled!

And as the biblical Samson, I was blinded by rage, “O lord, remember me or I will destroy this temple”, I said.

I was almost removed from the court for my outburst…

Finally it was my turn to make a statement, I stated and swore to uphold the truth. I did! I witnessed to all present what they had done to my father, the history, was not unknown to the judges.

My final statement to the judges and to the undefendable, “Do the honourable thing for once in your decrepit lives and uphold my fathers name or I will clog up the court system and drag you all through the Areo Pagos (The Supreme Court)”.

The judges, after respectfully listening to my statement, adjourned, putting their heads together, whispering to one another using my fathers casefile, with his honour written in his blood to cover their mouths from prying eyes, their breaths breathing life onto the pages, bringing it to life, for all that were there to see.

They finally came to a decision and returned to their seats.

I held my breath, as the President of the Judges, struck the gavel.

!“GUILTY”!, he proclaimed

I exhaled my caught breath on the trembling sighs of absinthal victory.

The President went through the preliminaries, finally making his closing statement.

“Georgios Tsambounieris the son of Ioannis, the war hero and Maria, brother to the unjustly slain Michael, was one of the most honourable men I have ever been privileged to meet… and you young lady do not leave the premises we’d like to speak to you privately”, yet, yet, he could not look me in the eyes.

The undefendables were ordered to pay reparations for the assaults to my father — blood money — which I did not accept, they can use it to replace the marble floors I and my father before me had worn holes upon.

A new beginning in my father’s name — not quite.

As I walked towards the back of the courtroom a pin could be heard dropping — everyone stood and a thunderous applause broke the blinded silence of the halls of justice.

My heart resounded upon the stentorian fall of the gavel, a victory laced with the devastation of loss.

In the back of the courtroom stood “He”, my friend the enemy, we exchange glances with each other in understanding, he bows his head in acquiesce, his appreciation — not enough.

I walk outside and raise my hands to the freedom of the life giving sun,

“Father, my father, thy will be done…”

One victory was — Not Enough! That day it had to make due. The feud was not over.

For myself, it had just begun.