There are probably few things that can unite anglophones and hellenophones in Cyprus more than their annoyance at the ridiculous and seemingly arbitrary transliteration of words that we see all over the country. One particularly confusing rule is the use of Ch for the Greek letter Χ, which is meant to represent an “H” sound – not a “Ch” at all.
Because of this, English speakers, who may or may not already be struggling to learn Greek, end up sounding even more ignorant, when they ask directions to the archaeological site at Chee-rokoitia, or go to the deli counter for half a kilo of Chee-romeri. On the other hand, Greek Cypriots, who generally speak fantastic English, are left baffled by the unnecessary C, when the H alone would do the job. So where did this strange convention come from? And why not just change it?
The reason behind all this confusion actually begins in Ancient Greece (9 century BC to 6 century AD), because at that time Χ represented a very different noise to the “H” sound that we’re used to in Modern Greek. It made a <kʰ> sound – phonetically, this is called an aspirated velar stop but, for us non-linguists, it’s easiest to think of it as a kind of breathy “K”.
This noise, however, posed a problem for the Romans, who loved to translate Greek texts into Latin but didn’t quite have the right letter to convey the peculiar <kʰ> noise into their own alphabet. In response to this difficulty, they decided to create a brand new digraph to represent the sound in Latin: Ch.
Now we need to fast-forward many centuries to find that two things have happened. First, while the sound of Χ changed radically with the advent of Modern Greek, the sound of Ch in Latin did not. And that sound and spelling was retained in many Latin words (with Greek roots) when they were borrowed into other languages. This is why in English, for example, ηχώ is echo, χάος is chaos, or why the statistical test χ2 is pronounced “kai” instead of “hee”. All these words in English have retained that “K” sound.
The second thing that happened was that over time a kind of linguistic tradition was established, with everyone more or less taking it for granted that Χ should be transliterated as Ch, even when the rule eventually no longer made sense with the sound of modern words/names. Most English linguists would have been classically educated and aware of the convention, so carried on applying it to Modern Greek. (There was probably also an element of snobbery involved, because if you’re a pretentious academic you might think it’s more important to show off your fancy education than to accurately convey how the common folk speak.)
And even though there has recently been a shift towards using H in informal transliteration (particularly for transliterating unwritten dialects like Cypriot) all of the official Romaization guides used by Greece, the United States, the UK and the UN use Ch. So as ridiculously infuriating as it might be, there’s little hope of us seeing a widespread, standard change to the rule any time soon.
Χριστός ανέστη! Αληθώς ανέστη! (Christ has risen! Indeed He is risen! – the traditional Paschal greeting and response of Eastern Christians and what everyone has been saying to each other since last night.)
We spent all of yesterday evening listening to the church bells ringing and to the kids in town setting off fireworks, while they guarded the village bonfire. One of them stopped by the house and explained that they have to guard it, otherwise the boys from the neighbouring town will come and steal the firewood for their own bonfire. And, when our village’s rep is at stake, they can’t possibly take any chances.
He even begrudgingly acknowledged that the bonfire we’d made at home was pretty good… and it was. We lit it at around 11:00pm. We didn’t have an effigy of Judas to burn – a common tradition, though I find it terribly anachronistic since he was supposed to have hung himself – but our bonfire was huge and, at its peak, the flames were taller than the house. Afterwards, we gorged ourselves on tasty meat that we cooked with the embers from the fire.
Having lived in the USA, where Christmas is by far the bigger holiday, and in the UK, where Easter is mostly seen as an excuse to eat too much chocolate, it has been refreshing to see how seriously the Cypriots take Easter. They don’t play around: lots of people fast, churches are packed and decorations are everywhere up and down the streets. And, in fact, one of the things I most enjoyed this year in the run-up to Orthodox Easter was the crazy street decorations.
The street decorations seem to fall into different categories. The first is the egg category. These are just huge Easter eggs, of varying colors but usually red, that read “Good Easter”. They are festive, cute, and the most tasteful of the decorations:
But then there is the category of decorations which I call the scary “chickens”. The quotations are necessary because if you didn’t know any better they might be mistaken for rabid ostriches.
Then there are the ones that look more like miserable wookiees. These are usually emerging from eggs, newly born but full of ennui:
There is also the ex-Christmas display category of decorations. While still nice and in the spirit of things, it is clear that the κοινοτικό συμβούλιο (community council) felt the need to buy some gently used Christmas decorations – and who can blame them in this economy!?
Despite my slight culture shock at the sometimes questionable decorations, it has been really nice celebrating two Easters this year. It has certainly made me appreciate both traditions, and it’s been interesting to see the similarities and the differences in the celebrations.
But next year, Easter will once again fall on the same day for everyone (April 16, 2017), so I’m really looking forward to creating one meaningful, fun and unified Easter celebration for my family by taking bits and pieces of all our different traditions.
Last week I was lucky enough to be invited to the screening of The Cypriot Fiddler, a new documentary by Nicoletta Demetriou, which showcases the important cultural role that fiddlers (fkiolarides/kemaneciler) in Cyprus, both Turkish- and Greek-Cypriots, played during the mid-twentieth century.
The screening took place in the middle of the UN Buffer Zone in Nicosia, at the Home for Cooperation, which aims to foster inter-communal communication. Aside from being a beautiful, laid-back venue (which I would recommend to anyone, simply for the coffee, food and amazing array of events it hosts), it also allowed for people from all over Cyprus to easily attend.
The evening started off with Dr Demetriou, who is a research fellow in Ethnomusicology and Life Writing at Wolfson College, University of Oxford, saying a few words about the origins and goals of the project. She explained that despite the fact that a lot of their music had already been recorded, personal and professional stories detailing the role of fiddlers in Cypriot society had not. Through the film (and the book that will follow), she wanted to gather those stories, and capture a part of Cyprus’s recent past.
Through one-to-one interviews, the documentary covered various aspects of the fiddlers’ craft, including their training, as well as how and why they chose to enter the profession. It discussed the vital part that they played at social gatherings – particularly weddings, which they tellingly called “making a wedding”, rather than “attending”. They were also asked about the perks and disadvantages of being a fiddler in Cyprus at that time, including their going rates and the expectations on their repertoires.
One of the most interesting parts of the film for me was when it touched on the women that worked and lived beside those men. It addressed the gender imbalance in the profession, acknowledging the few female fiddlers that did preform during that time. I also enjoyed the brief interviews with the fiddlers’ wives, which offered an unique perspective into how their households, family and work was affected by their husbands’ profession.
The film was simply but charmingly shot, delivering as much banter and jokes as anthropology, and it was obviously full of amazing folk music. But the most enduring sentiment for me was that of unity. The descriptions of fiddlers working in mixed villages for example, or the use of the Cypriot dialect by both Greek- and Turkish-Cypriots. And some of that past unity was certainly reflected in the screening’s after-party, with musicians and audience members from both sides of Cyprus sitting down to eat, drink, play and dance into the night in the middle of the Buffer Zone.
You hear so many stories about people who have been living in Cyprus for five, 10, even 20 years and never bothered to learn Greek. I definitely didn’t want to become one of them, so I arranged to start classes even before I left the UK. That was in early January. A long eight weeks later, I’m done with beginners’ Level A1… and I’ve learned a lot along the way.
Essentially, it is all really useful, salt-of-the-earth type stuff, but there is by no means any Greek prowess in my brain at the moment (as you’ll see in the mistakes below). Be under no illusions: Greek is tough and you won’t learn to speak it in eight weeks.
What You Don’t Expect
Right now Greek and I have a love-hate relationship. She drives me crazy because of all her quirks, which I perceive as superfluous because they make my life more difficult:
I have never looked at a calendar and thought: “You know that these months need? Two names each! Oh, except for August, it’s cool with one.”
I already speak two languages fluently, neither of which is highly inflected. Surely all these declensions in Greek only exist to make me unhappy?
There is no need to give everything a gender. English got it right when it decided to do without during Middle English. I’ll blame the Real Academia Española for keeping Spanish with two. But surely three genders is just unnecessarily absurd?
Why would an alphabet have three letters for I but no U? And, in case those three options don’t satiate your short-I needs, you can also make the same sound with three extra vowel combinations: ει, οι, υι.
Forget any concept of autonomous identity you might ascribe to names, because names change in Greek, particularly men’s names. So when I talk about my husband he is Σίμος. But when I talk TO him he suddenly becomes Σίμο. Having to remember two names seems like all the hassle of polygamy without any of the perks.
The love part of my relationship with Greek, is still only budding. Truthfully, I love the way it sounds; it is a beautiful language to listen to, particularly the Cypriot dialect with all its funky CH and J noises. And there is a lovely satisfaction whenever I watch TV, listen to the radio or overhear a conversation, and realize that I can understand just a little bit more each day.
Embrace the Mistakes
On their website my Greek school enigmatically states their philosophy as: “Ithaca has given you the beautiful voyage”. I’ve interpreted that line from Cavafy’s Ithaca to mean: Don’t worry about how totally crap you are, just enjoy the journey of learning. So, fortified by their ethos, I’ve tried to dive into it as unselfconsciously as possible and have, as a result, made an amazing array of mistakes along the way. Here are a few of the situations I’ve been in, and their relevant lessons:
When you want to write “very good” but end up with “city good”, because they are homophones:
very – πολύ city – πόλη
When you want to show off your meager sentence construction skills at a family BBQ and think it’ll be nice to tell the small children about your dog, but rather than being impressed that you understand genders, their mother informs you that you’ve been saying “bitch” repeatedly. No wonder they were giggling so much.
male AND female dogs – σκύλος
When someone asks you to do some simple arithmetic and your response goes a little something like this: 50 + 20 = week
70 – εβδομήντα
week – εβδομάδα
When you want to describe someone as a housewife but instead end up saying that “She doesn’t work because she is a family”.
housewife – οικοκυρά family – οικογένεια
When, in response to “how are you?”, your teacher replies with a new word and then goes on to ask if anyone knows what it means. You rapidly scan your mental vocab bank and remember the word from last week’s lesson on punctuation. You realise it makes no sense, so confusedly ask in English whether that wasn’t the same word as “period”. At which point everyone, including yourself, erupts in laughter because you realise you’ve just asked the male teacher if he is menstruating.
perfect – τέλεια
period – τελεία(which, incidentally, is only used for the punctuation)
What to Consider
Despite my frequent bursts of frustration, I am really enjoying learning Greek and would certainly recommend it to other expats. There are a lot of options for learning though, so everyone should weigh up which is best for their schedule, budget and learning-style. I decided to pay for group lessons because I knew that they would be the most effective for me in terms of speed and cost-efficiency.
I’d tried at-home CD/book programs before, thinking I could learn some Greek to use on holidays but, when you have no pressure to study regularly, or people to practice with and ask questions to, you aren’t going to learn much and you will retain even less. Using language is inherently interactive, so learning in a group setting, where I was forced to react and contribute has been valuable. It is also cheaper than having private tuition.
I know that the Cypriot Ministry of Education offers free Greek lessons, but after a bit a research I found that these have a reputation for large classes and varying teaching quality. They also only run twice a week.
So, instead, I chose to go with Learn4Good Larnaca, essentially because I’d heard through the Cypriot grapevine (eg, my father-in-law spoke to a neighbor, whose daughter’s friend’s cousin had taken classes) that they were good and I have not been disappointed. In fact, I’ve masochistically signed up for Level A2 with them as well, so we shall see how the love-hate relationship develops!
Whether you’re a practicing Christian or just a Lindt bunny aficionado, if you’ve never been to Cyprus during this time of year before, you may suddenly start to notice something odd going on. The nightly news on PIK1 last week was full of colorful shots of Venice, Rio, and New Orleans, all in the midst of their carnivals – historically, the last chance for excess and debauchery before hunkering down for Lent. But no word about the Limassol Carnival, which this year won’t be starting til March 3.
What I’d never realised, until one of my earlier trips to Cyprus, was that Orthodox Christians and Western denominations don’t always celebrate Easter on the same day, which means that the start of Lent can also vary. Some years the Easters coincide, as they did in 2014, but this year they will be a whole five weeks apart, being celebrated on:
March 27 – West Side
May 1 – East Side
When in Rome (or Constantinople) ?
This “double Easter” can be a bit confusing for tourists and expats who aren’t Orthodox. Firstly, it can mean feeling out of sync with a culture you are already trying hard to assimilate with – most years there won’t be that general holiday build-up to “your Easter” as you might expect back home, let alone the same traditions you are used to. And there also won’t be days off from work for you (or off school for the kids) if the dates don’t concur.
Though some expats may choose to tune-out the “Orthodox noise” and stick to what they know, for me and other foreigners who have friends and family here it’s a bit trickier. We know that as much as a month after our palm fronds, chocolate eggs, and bunny decorations have all been put away, that’s about when we’ll be getting that invitation to Easter 2.0 with the extended family.
What’s more, some denominations in Cyprus take a “when in Rome approach” and change their dates to coincide. While it is a nice ecumenical gesture, many expats then end up celebrating on a different day from families back home, creating even more confusion, and not everyone has been keen on the idea.
Why two Easters?
To calculate Easter, you need the Computus – the highly complicated, official formula that everyone has used since the Middle Ages. The stripped down version is:
Easter = The first Sunday, after the first full moon, on or after the vernal equinox
The problem is no one can agree on what any of the variables should be.
“First Sunday” is up for debate because Western Churches use the Gregorian Calendar, whereas the Orthodox Church uses the older Julian Calendar.
In the West, churches use the date of the ecclesiastical full moon (the 14th day of the ecclesiastical month), while in the East they use the actual, astronomical full moon.
Similarly, rather than using the actual vernal equinox, which has natural variations, like the Orthodox Church, in the West the date of the equinox has been set to always fall on March 21.
And as a bonus:
Because the Crucifixion took place after Jesus went to Jerusalem for Passover, the Eastern Orthodox Church’s calculation also takes the Jewish holiday’s date into account, but for Western denominations Easter can sometimes fall before Passover.
Can’t we all just get along?
There have been numerous attempts throughout the 20th, and now 21st, Century to bring all churches towards celebrating Easter under one date – the latest of which was just last month. Essentially, many people think that having two Easters undermines the religion’s unity and lessens the credibility of its beliefs.
But I, for one, have come to the opposite opinion: Maybe Easter is just so awesome it needs more than one day for it to get done right? Plus, I am very much looking forward to doubling-up on celebrations and Easter meals this year… though perhaps not so much to doubling-up on Lent.