Η Πύλη των Λεόντων
Τὸ ἐκπαιδευτήριο, ὅπου δίδασκε, ἦταν ἰδιωτικό. Πάντα φρόντιζε νὰ τὸ τονίζει —ἀκόμη κι ὅταν δὲν τὸν ρωτοῦσαν. Ἄλλωστε, ἂν καὶ δὲν ἦταν ἀπὸ τὰ πιὸ αὐστηρὰ ἢ ἀκριβὰ ἰδιωτικά, διέθετε πολλὲς ἀπὸ τὶς ἀνέσεις ἑνὸς καθωσπρέπει ἱδρύματος. Ἑνὸς ἱδρύματος γιὰ οἰκογένειες ποὺ εἶχαν μάθει νὰ πληρώνουν γιὰ τὴν τάξη, τὴν ἄνεση καὶ τὸ βιογραφικό.
Ἐν πάσῃ περιπτώσει, ἐκεῖνος δίδασκε ἱστορία…
Τὰ παιδιὰ εἶχαν πολλὰ νὰ τοὺς τραβήξουν τὴ προσοχή… ‘Εσωτερικὴ καντίνα, αὐτόματους πωλητές, καθαρίστριες ποὺ ἔτριβαν κάθε σπιθαμὴ τοῦ σχολικοῦ χώρου —λὲς καὶ θὰ ξόρκιζαν τὴ φθορά,
ἐγκαταστάσεις σύγχρονων ἐργαστηρίων, γήπεδο τένις καί, φυσικά, χῶρο γιὰ πολεμικὲς τέχνες. Μέχρι Ψηφιακὴ ἀφηρημένη ἀπόδοση τῆς Πύλης τῶν Λεόντων.
The Lion Gate in Krita with stylus..
καὶ ἀνελκυστῆρας ὑπῆρχε, γιὰ νὰ ἀνεβοκατεβαίνουν τοὺς ὀρόφους μὲ ἄνεση. Ἦταν, πράγματι, ἕνα ἐκπαιδευτικὸ ὑπερθέαμα — τόσο ἐντυπωσιακό, ποὺ λίγα ἐμπορικὰ κέντρα μποροῦσαν νὰ τὸ ἀνταγωνιστοῦν.
Ὅπως καὶ νά ‘χει, ἐκεῖνος δίδασκε ἱστορία…
Μιὰ μέρα, σὰν ὅλες τὶς ἄλλες, τοὺς δίδασκε γιὰ τὴν πόλη τῶν Μυκηνῶν. Ὄχι τὴ Μυκηναϊκὴ πόλη τὴν ἴδια. Ὄχι γιὰ τὶς μεγαλόπρεπες Μυκῆνες, ὅπως τὶς ἔπλασε ἡ πέτρα, ὁ φόβος καὶ ὁ χρόνος, ἀλλὰ γιὰ τὶς Μυκῆνες τῆς σχολικῆς σελίδας. Τῆς σελίδας μὲ τὶς στενὲς παραγράφους, τὶς χαώδεις περιγραφὲς καὶ τὶς ἀρχαΐζουσες λέξεις. Λέξεις ποὺ ἔπρεπε νὰ πεταχτοῦν στὰ λιοντάρια, ἐπειδὴ ἐκεῖνος ἀδυνατοῦσε νὰ καταδείξει τὴν αἴγλη καὶ τὴν μεγαλοπρέπεια τὶς λέξης: «λεόντων». Ἐκεῖνος, ὅμως, ἦταν ὑποχρεωμένος νὰ συμπαρασύρει τὰ παιδιὰ στὶς κακοτράχαλες ἀράδες τοῦ ὑπουργείου…
Καθώς, εκείνος δίδασκε ἱστορία…
Κι ὅμως, οἱ εἰκόνες ἦταν ἐκεῖ, τυπωμένες στὸ ἴδιο βιβλίο — ἀκίνητες μέν, ἀλλὰ πολλὰ ὑποσχόμενες δέ. Ὑπόσχονταν ὄχι ἁπλῶς μιὰ ἱστορία, μὰ τὴν ἴδια τὴν ψηλάφηση τοῦ τόπου. Ἔξω ἀπὸ τὰ ἐρείπια τῆς ἀκρόπολης, τὰ ἴχνη τῶν σπιτιῶν καὶ τῶν δρόμων καταμαρτυροῦσαν πὼς κάποτε ὑπῆρχε ζωὴ ἐκεῖ. Ζωὴ ἱκανὴ νὰ θρέψει ἕνα ὁλόκληρο βασίλειο, κοιτῶντας κατάματα τὸν ἐχθρὸ μὲ βαθιὰ πίστη ὄχι μόνο στὰ κυκλώπεια τείχη, μὰ καὶ στὸν λόφο τοῦ ἀνακτόρου. Καμιὰ ἀμφιβολία δὲν ἔζωνε τὴν πόλη, ὅσο ὑπῆρχε ἐκεῖ ἡ πύλη τῶν λεόντων ὄρθια, επανδρωμένη. Ὅσο προστάτευε μὲ τὴν ἀπειλητική της ὅψη τὶς ἐντὸς τῶν τειχῶν δομὲς καὶ θεσμοὺς τῆς ἐξουσίας.
Ὅμως, ἐκεῖνος δίδασκε ἱστορία…
Ἑπομένως, τὰ παιδιὰ ὄφειλαν νὰ καταπιοῦν ἀμάσητη κάθε λέξη μέχρι νὰ βαρύνουν, ἔτσι ὥστε—χωρὶς τὴ βοήθεια ἀνελκυστῆρα— νὰ κατρακυλήσουν ἀπὸ τὸ ἐπίπεδο τοῦ ἀνακτόρου πρὸς τὸ κατώτερο ἐπίπεδο τῆς ἀκρόπολης. Ἀπὸ ἐκεῖ, νὰ ἐκτιναχθοῦν στὰ δώματα τοῦ πρώτου ὀρόφου, ρίχνοντας μιὰ ματιὰ στὰ λουτρὰ τοῦ βασιλιᾶ. Ὕστερα, νὰ ἐκσφενδονιστοῦν ἐκτὸς τῶν τειχῶν, γιὰ νὰ συνειδητοποιήσουν πὼς βρίσκονται στὴν Πελοπόννησο — μολονότι κανένα τους δὲν τὴν εἶχε δεῖ ποτὲ στὸ χάρτη… Ἴσως, μιὰ ἐπίσκεψη στὴν κοντινὴ ἀκρόπολη τῶν Ἀθηνῶν νὰ βοηθοῦσε στὴν κατανόηση, ἀλλὰ ἦταν κατειλημμένη ἀπὸ τουρίστες. Ίσως, ἕνας ὑπολογιστὴς πιθανὸν νὰ βοηθοῦσε περισσότερο τὴ στιγμὴ ἐκείνη. Μὲ τὴ σωστὴ καθοδήγηση… καὶ λαχτάρα γιὰ ταξίδι…
Ὅμως, ἐκεῖνος δίδασκε ἱστορία…
Δὲν ἦταν ἐκεῖνος γιὰ ἀποστολὴ καὶ σταυρό. Τὰ μόνα εὐαγγέλια πού ‘χε ἦταν ὁ φόβος καὶ ἡ νομοθεσία.
Κι ἂς ἔβλεπες στὰ πρόσωπα τῶν παιδιῶν ἀκλόνητη τὴν λαχτάρα γιὰ φροντίδα στὴ μικρὴ καὶ στὴ μεγάλη θέαση. Τὴ λαχτάρα γιὰ ἕναν δάσκαλο ποὺ γίνεται μαζί τους μαθητὴς καὶ τολμᾶ, ὅταν πρέπει, νὰ προστατεύσει τὴν σημαίνουσα αὐτὴ πύλη. Ἀκόμη καὶ ἐκ τῶν ἔσω, ἀψηφῶντας δομὲς, θεσμοὺς καὶ βασιλιᾶδες.
Ὡστόσο, ἐκεῖνος ἀκόμη διδάσκει,
ἐξιλεωμένος ὤν ἕνεκα καλῶν βαθμῶν.
Καὶ ἐμεῖς τί κάνουμε;
Τί κάνουμε γιὰ τὸ καλὸ τῶν παιδιῶν μας;
Συνεχίζουμε μὲ κυνισμὸ καὶ ἀδιαφορία
νὰ περιφρονοῦμε τὴ δική μας ἱστορία…
THE LION GATE
(Author’s own English rendition)
The private school where he taught was something he always made sure to emphasize —even when no one asked. After all, while it wasn’t among the most prestigious or expensive ones, it offered many of the comforts of a proper, respectable institution. The kind of institution built for families who were used to paying for order, convenience, and a polished résumé.
In any case, he himself was teaching history…
There were plenty of things to capture the children’s attention… An indoor canteen, vending machines, cleaning staff scrubbing every inch of the school grounds —as if trying to exorcise decay itself. State- of-the-art labs, a tennis court, and of course, a space for martial arts. There was even an elevator, so they could move between floors in comfort. It was, indeed, an educational spectacle — so impressive that only a few shopping malls could hope to compete with it.
At any rate, he himself was teaching history…
One day, like any other, he was teaching them about the city of Mycenae. Not the actual
Mycenaean city. Not the majestic Mycenae shaped by stone, fear, and time, but the Mycenae of the schoolbook page. A page with narrow paragraphs, chaotic descriptions, and archaic words. Words that ought to be thrown to the lions, since he was failing to reveal the splendor and majesty carried by the very word “leontōn” 1 . Yet, he was obliged to lead the children through the Ministry’s rugged lines…
For after all, he himself was teaching history…
Nevertheless, the images were there, printed on the very same book page — motionless, yes, but full of promise, nonetheless. They promised not merely a story, but the very touch of place itself.
Beyond the ruins of the citadel, the traces of houses and streets bore witness that life once thrived there. Life strong enough to sustain an entire kingdom, gazing its enemy straight in the eye, with deep faith not only in the Cyclopean walls, but also in the hill of the palace. No doubt ever
1 Ancient Greek for “of the lions”.
shadowed that city, as long as the Lion Gate stood there upright, manned. As long as its
menacing face guarded the inner structures and institutions of power.
However, he himself was teaching history…
Therefore, the children had to swallow every word whole, until they grew heavy — heavy
enough to tumble down, unaided by any elevator, from the palace level to the lower level of the citadel.
From there, they were to launch themselves up to the upper floor, to catch a glimpse of the king’s baths. Then, to be catapulted beyond the walls, only to realize they were in the Peloponnese — even though none of them had ever seen it on a map… Perhaps a visit to the nearby Acropolis of Athens would have helped, but it was occupied by tourists. Perhaps a computer might have helped more at that moment with the right guidance… and a longing for travel.
Still, he himself was teaching history…
He was not made for missions and martyrdom. The only gospels he carried were fear and legislation.
Even so, you could see in the children’s faces a steadfast yearning — for care, both in the small and in the grand view. A yearning for a teacher who becomes a student alongside them, and who dares, when needed, to protect that wondrous gate even from within, defying structures, institutions, and kings.
Yet he still teaches,
absolved by virtue of good grades.
And what about us?
What do we do for the good of our children?
We go on, with cynicism and indifference,
despising our very own history…
https://simiomatario.gr/category/simiomatografoi/simiomatario-tou-spiridona-mayrommati
Σκίτσο: Σπυρίδωνας Μαυρομμάτης
