The Holocaust of Paliomonastiro, 15 September 1825
“The stones remember what the written record could not preserve.”
About six kilometres beyond Vrondamas, deep within a wild and precipitous ravine, lies Paliomonastiro. Built into the rock itself, it seems almost to have sprung from the stone around it.
Today, those who make their way there hear only the wind, the birds and the echo rising from the gorge. On 15 September 1825, however, this same place was filled with smoke, fire, screams and death. The ancient monastery, which for centuries had offered prayer and refuge, became the tomb of hundreds of people from Vrondamas.
What had happened?
A monastery within the rock
Paliomonastiro is one of Laconia’s most important Byzantine monuments. According to the generally accepted view, its ancient cave church dates from the twelfth century. Its small chapels, stone buildings and the surviving traces of old frescoes bear witness to the centuries of faith that once flourished in this secluded place.
Its location was no accident. The sheer rock face, narrow approaches and natural shelter of the cave made it difficult to reach. In troubled times, the people of the surrounding district knew that they could hide there and hold out against danger.
In the autumn of 1825, however, this natural refuge was destined to become a place of martyrdom.
Ibrahim in Laconia
The year 1825 was one of the darkest of the Greek War of Independence. Ibrahim Pasha had landed in the Peloponnese with a well-organised Egyptian army and was attempting to crush the Revolution with fire and bloodshed.
His troops burnt villages, destroyed crops, slaughtered those who resisted and carried captives away to be sold in the slave markets. Their aim was clear: to bring the land to its knees, starve its people and force the rebellious Greeks into submission.
Laconia endured days of terror. Karitsa, Geraki, Vrondamas and the other villages of Parnon and the Evrotas plain heard the dreadful news and waited anxiously for their turn.
Only three days before the tragedy at Paliomonastiro, the women and children of Geraki had fled through the Sorbanos Pass. In Karitsa, little Chrysoula and so many other villagers were also struggling to escape Ibrahim’s fury.
Amid those terrible days, the people of Vrondamas abandoned their homes and sought refuge at Paliomonastiro.
Three hundred to four hundred souls
Historical sources and local traditions do not agree on the exact number. Most, however, speak of some three hundred to four hundred people.
Among them were women, children, elderly people and a number of armed men. They were not a regular army. They were ordinary villagers, farmers, shepherds, mothers and children who suddenly found themselves defending their lives, their faith and their freedom.
The priest Dimitris Papadimitriou and the local chieftain Giannakis Karambas assumed leading roles. The priest remained close to his flock, encouraging them and helping to organise the defence. Karambas, hardened by battle and the privations of the Revolution, rallied those under siege and directed their small band of fighters.
For three days and nights, the people of Vrondamas resisted.
“While we live, we shall never bow”
Ibrahim’s forces surrounded Paliomonastiro, but its precipitous position made it difficult for them to approach. Sheltered behind the rock, those inside answered with whatever weapons and ammunition they possessed.
Ibrahim called upon them to surrender. According to local tradition, he demanded that they sign declarations of submission, known as proskynochartia, in exchange for their lives.
They refused. They chose to preserve their honour and freedom, even as they became ever more aware of the fate awaiting them.
Their proud answer survived not only in the memory of the people. It also passed into a folk song that preserved both the anguish of Vrondamas and its resounding refusal to submit.
15 September 1825
When a direct assault failed to capture Paliomonastiro, Ibrahim’s men sought another way.
Historical accounts relate that they climbed above the cave and opened holes in the rock overhead. Through them, they dropped dry brushwood, sulphur, gunpowder and other combustible materials. Flames took hold, and thick smoke began to fill the enclosed space.
Those inside had nowhere to go. The besiegers’ weapons awaited them at the entrance. Behind them rose the unyielding rock. Fire, explosions and suffocation claimed almost every person trapped within.
The monastery that had protected them for three days became their common grave.
Tradition holds that only two women survived. They were captured and sold in the slave markets of Egypt, then freed years later with the help of Greek merchants. Here, too, the details vary as the story passes from one generation to the next. Its heart, however, remains unchanged. Almost no one escaped the Holocaust.
The Song of the Holocaust
What the people had no opportunity to record was preserved in folk song. In a few simple, sorrowful verses, it carries us to the ridge of Kritsova, where three little birds look out over Vrondamas and the river.
The third bird, “the finest of the three”, becomes the voice of the whole village:
Three little birds sit high upon the ridge of Kritsova,
one looks towards Vrondamas, another towards the river,
the third, the finest of the three, laments aloud and says:
“My God, what has become of the poor people of Vrondamas?
They are seen at neither wedding nor village celebration,
for they went and found themselves besieged within the Monastery.
Ibrahim Pasha passed that way, and Ibrahim Pasha told them:
‘Come out and bow before me. Abandon the church!’
And this is how they answered him, this is the reply they gave:
‘Begone, you and your faith. Away with you, renegades.
While they still draw breath, the people of Vrondamas shall never bow to the Turks.
Better that we burn than be taken into slavery.’”
The song is neither a military account nor an official historical record. It is the lament of the land itself. It is how later generations tried to contain within a few verses a tragedy that words could scarcely hold.
The three little birds, a familiar image in Greek folk song, stand as immortal witnesses above the land. One looks towards the village, another towards the river, while the third wonders why the people of Vrondamas have vanished from everyday life. They are at neither a wedding nor a village celebration. They are all besieged within the Monastery.
The meaning of their sacrifice is distilled into the final two lines:
“While they still draw breath, the people of Vrondamas shall never bow to the Turks. Better that we burn than be taken into slavery.”
Three women in mourning on the ridge of Parnon
The lament for Paliomonastiro did not live only in the old folk song. Many years later, it found a voice once more in a brief but deeply moving tsamiko, released on record in 1967 and sung by Argyris Farlekas, himself a native of Vrondamas:
Three women dressed in mourning sat high upon the ridge of Parnon,
weeping for the people of Vrondamas until even the stones split apart,
for their enemies burnt them while celebrating their fate.
In the old lament, three little birds gaze down from the ridge of Kritsova. In the later song, their place is taken by three women in mourning on the ridge of Parnon. The images change, but the lament remains the same. The people perished in the flames, yet their suffering lived on in song, a sorrow so heavy that even the stones cracked beneath its weight.
Giannakis Karambas and the cry of “Hellas”
Far less is known about the life of Giannakis Karambas than we would wish. His story has come down to us chiefly through local memory and oral tradition.
Older people remembered him as the chieftain who would not yield, who stood beside his fellow villagers until the end and who chose death rather than submission.
Tradition relates that, gravely wounded and moments from death, he cried out a single word:
“Hellas!”
We may have no written testimony recording that moment, but tradition did not preserve this word without reason. Within it rests the entire meaning of the sacrifice: homeland, faith, freedom and the refusal to submit.
Father Dimitris Papadimitriou also remained beside Karambas until the end. He did not abandon his people. He became one of the besieged, a fighter and a martyr alongside them.
Laconia’s little Missolonghi
Paliomonastiro has rightly been called “Laconia’s little Missolonghi”.
The comparison does not suggest that the two events were equal in scale or unfolded in precisely the same way. Missolonghi was a fortified town, and its heroic Exodus in April 1826 had an impact throughout Greece and across the world. At Vrondamas, there was neither an organised exodus nor a large military force.
There was, however, the same indomitable spirit. Civilians were trapped, those under siege refused to submit, and an entire community paid in blood for its determination to remain free.
Paliomonastiro may have been smaller in scale, but not in sacrifice.
Memory passed from one generation to the next
The Holocaust was never forgotten. Its story passed from old to young through family accounts, laments and the song of Paliomonastiro. Details may have changed over the years, but the grief, the pride and the resounding refusal to submit remained undiminished.
Every year on 15 September, the people of Vrondamas honour their dead. They return to the historic site to pray and remember those who perished in the flames. Paliomonastiro has been recognised as a historic monument, but to the people of the village it is far more than that.
It is their own sacred place, a place of sorrow, pride and family memory.
The stones remember
The ancient buildings and chapels still survive, along with traces of Byzantine frescoes and the rock that once sheltered those under siege. All of them need care and protection.
Paliomonastiro is not merely an archaeological site, nor simply a beautiful place to visit. It bears witness to our history. Every stone speaks of people who once ran there with children in their arms, hoping to find safety.
For those of us from neighbouring villages, the story of Vrondamas is not some distant tale from a foreign place. It belongs to that same terrible week in September 1825, when little Chrysoula of Karitsa was struggling to find her way home and the women and children of Geraki were fleeing through the Sorbanos Pass.
It was the same enemy, the same fear and the same struggle for survival.
That is why we continue to tell this story. Freedom was not won only by the great chieftains on the battlefield. Its price was also paid by ordinary people, by mothers, children, priests and villagers in little known ravines and monasteries hewn into the rock.
As long as we remember them and sing their lament, the souls of Paliomonastiro will never be lost to silence.
Note: The tsamiko “Three Women Dressed in Mourning” was first released on a 45 rpm record on 27 March 1967, sung by Argyris Farlekas of Vrondamas. The music was composed and performed on clarinet by Vasilis Skaliotis, the lyrics were written by Argyris Farlekas, and Alekos Arapakis accompanied them on violin. You can listen to the historic recording here.
