An eventful journey

Abstract

I was three years old when general Métaxas was installed as dictator, with the active consent of King George II. My father had been transferred from Athens to a little town in the north of Greece (1936). I had just celebrated my seventh birthday (October 1940) when Mussolini’s Italy attacked my country, which successfully resisted and pushed the invader back into Albania’s heartland. My father, a military veterinary surgeon, found himself at the front right from the outbreak of the war, while the rest of us left Véria for Athens. After six months of fighting, Hitler’s Germany came to the aid of its ally and opened a second front, quickly installing a triple occupation of the country thanks to German, Italian and Bulgarian troops. We left Athens for Pyrgos, in the Peloponnese, where my maternal grandfather’s farm could ensure us a livelihood. I lost my father when I was ten years old. It was when living with my grandfather than I witnessed the birth and development of the resistance movements, and specifically of the Front of National Liberation (EAM) and of the National Popular Liberation Army (ELAS), where my uncles and aunt were enrolled. At the same time as fighting the occupation, by far the greatest majority of these movements also worked hard to prepare for the setting up of a democratic regime in the post-war period, one that we all hoped would be different to the regimes of the past. During the occupation years, the EAM had even laid out a plan for educational reform, details of which can be found in the Ouvrage Collectif (1966, pp.37–75). The military intervention of the British in 1955 (who supported the royalist movements), together with the armed groups collaborating with the Germans (all of whom were keen to see the unconditional return of the king to the throne, as well as to have the partisans disarmed even before the occupying forces had completely abandoned the country) led to civil war (Tsoucalas, 1969; Svoronos, 1972). This lasted three years, and was brought to an end by the victory of the ‘forces of order’. During this period, England withdrew from Greece, leaving the way clear for the United States, which, in its turn, found the right conditions in which it could experiment ‘in vivo’, methods that were later to be employed in Vietnam. After a hotly contested referendum, King George II was returned to the throne in 1946. It was in that same year that my uncles were imprisoned. At the end of the civil war (1949), Greece was strewn with camps, to which thousands upon thousands of people were deported on the basis of a simple administrative decision. The communist party and a series of other political and cultural organizations were outlawed, and ‘emergency laws’ suspended a good number of articles in the Constitution. Prisons were overflowing with inmates, while special tribunals worked overnight, pronouncing heavy sentences indiscriminately. In this way, an unknown number of people, including students, were ‘legally’ executed right in the heart of Athens. The speeches and pleas of a brilliant lawyer during political court hearings had not only been noticed, but also annoyed the established order. Ilias Iliou, the father of my best friend (who was to become my sister-in-law ten years later), was soon arrested and deported to an island. During the 1951 elections, which had not been subject to the same degree of political manipulation as previous ones, three political prisoners as well as seven deportees—among them Ilias Iliou—were elected as representatives of a newly created party, the United Democratic Left (EDA). The election of the prisoners was immediately invalidated, while the elected deportees were led from the camps to the Chamber to be sworn in. It should be said that Ilias Iliou, whose death was marked by a national funeral in 1985, had spent eight years of his life as a deportee, in prison or in a camp, even though he had never been tried. He had served in Parliament for eighteen years as an EDA deputy, becoming the party’s spokesman in the Chamber, and later its president. Such events marked my childhood and adolescence, and contributed to my education as much as, if not more than, schooling did: I attended primary classes in Pyrgos, while I got my secondary education in Arsakeion, a reputed school in Athens. In 1951 I was accepted in the Faculty of Arts at the University of Athens, from where I obtained my degree in classical studies. At that time, there were no departments in psychology, sociology, or educational sciences in our universities. While completing my first degree, I also followed special courses at the French Institute of Athens, which at that time was responsible for preparing teachers of French, both for the secondary schools and for the Annexes of the Institute, where I taught for two years (1955–1957). My years in higher education marked me in at least three ways: first, my somewhat precocious vocation as an educator was confirmed, as was my conviction that the country needed radical reform in this sector—reforms which, together with the democratisation of our institutions, had been actively but vainly sought after since the 19th century by the most active forces in the country. Second, I developed a profound sense of gratitude towards the French Institute, as well as to its deputy director Roger Milliex, for the education they afforded me. With the support of Octave Merlier, the Institute’s director, strong ties had been woven between Greece and France. The cultural impact of these links on my country has been enduring. Third, higher education studies oriented me towards an engagement with social issues, notably through activism within student organisations, not all of which were legal. I could have gone to University and graduated a few years later without encountering political and administrative problems. My two diplomas would normally have permitted me to teach in secondary schools. But this was not to be. Since early youth, my destiny had become interwoven with that of Philippe Iliou, Ilias’ son, and our lives were to become increasingly complicated. At that time, the possibility of having a life free of additional problems depended on an administrative document of the highest importance, and which could be only issued by the police: the Certificate of Social Beliefs. This was essential, whether it was to sit for university entrance examinations, to have a post in administration or teaching, to be issued with a passport, and even to have a driving licence... Philippe was not granted this Certificate, and he found himself unable to either study at a University in Greece, or to pursue studies abroad. He was called up for military service, which he served holed up in the notorious camp of Makronissos. It was only in 1957 that he finally could get a passport, and that on a short-term basis. We quickly got married (the two versions of our surname, Iliou and Eliou, are due to a disagreement among employees at the Ministry of Foreign Affairs about the ‘correct’ spelling of the word in the Latin alphabet), and headed for Paris and the Sorbonne the very same day. Philippe had to register for a foundational course before he could take up history, while as for me, even though I could formally start working on a doctoral thesis, I preferred to first complete my education in pedagogy and child psychology. It was heavenly to live in Paris: conferences, museums, a vibrant intellectual environment... All the university courses were enriching, but it was those led by Jean Piaget, and especially his seminars on genetic epistemology, that marked me the most. While studying, we also joined the Comité Français pour la Grèce Démocratique and the Secours Populaire Français, in support of political prisoners in Mediterranean countries. Piaget had accepted to supervise my thesis on ‘The formation of the concepts of number and space in the Algerian child in Paris.’ It was the period of the war with Algeria, which recalled my memories of the Greek struggle for liberation. The Algerians in Paris were at that time overtly subjected to repression, and their children had to face a multitude of difficulties. It was quite natural for me to identify with them, and to see in them my brothers and sisters. Together with many other students, I volunteered my services to a club for Algerian children which had been established in the 15th arrondissement by CIMADE, a Protestant organisation. I remember being a monitrice in a holiday camp for Algerian kids organised by young French Catholic and Algerian Muslims in Fléac, a village near Angoulême, where we spent an unforgettable month. Since I needed some income, I was lucky enough to be accepted as a contract researcher with the Institute of Economic and Social Development, which had just been established at the Sorbonne. The IEDES focused on the developing world, and had both a teaching and a research programme. I committed myself enthusiastically to a research project led by Jean-Claude Pauvert, looking at aspects of education in a number of African countries. The Institute’s research programmes on the economic and social problems challenging Asian, African and Latin American countries were hot topics then. Several exchanges between researchers took place under the leadership and direction of Michel Debeauvais, and led to the foundation of a unit within IEDES which provided space for reflection and innovation, and in which other organisations, such as UNESCO and OECD, found inspiration and resources for their own projects. It was this that led to a consultancy post with UNESCO, while maintaining my work as a researcher with IEDES. A whole new world now opened in front of my eyes when I first took part in a UNESCO mission on educational planning in the Republic of Mali. It was my first physical contact with an African country, a privileged experience at many levels: a daunting responsibility towards a young nation; contact with a vital and creative tradition; contradictions within the very nature of our mission, in that our efforts and educational objectives were jeopardised by the lack of data and resources, and our proposals, which had been formulated with the active participation of Mali officials, inevitably reflected views made by persons coming from a radically different culture. This brings us to 1964. Philippe had just obtained his diploma in history. I was getting quite a lot of professional satisfaction in my work with IEDES and UNESCO, which resonated with the convictions I had about my role as an educator, a university academic, and a citizen. At the same time I had concluded the empirical research aspects of my doctoral thesis that Piaget had approved. However, there was still the writing up to do, and my husband and I were increasingly suffering from nostalgia. We had not been able to set foot in our country of birth for seven long years, given that nobody could give us a guarantee that we would be allowed to leave again. We however took the decision to return to Greece when elections led to the installation of a Centrist government presided by Georges Pandréou (the present Prime Minister’s grandfather), who among other things had launched a reform in education. On finding our way back in our country, we discovered that the government was in control of only part of the state. The ‘emergency laws’ which had been established during the civil war were still in place. It was therefore impossible to find work, other than temporary contracts in the private sector. We were still not allowed to teach. When I asked the Ministry of Education to at least allow me to be registered as a teacher in private schools, I got the following official message, notifying me that: ‘you are requested to submit the Declaration of Social and Civic Beliefs, as demanded by the emergency law of 516/1948, so that we can then forward it to the Social and Civic Beliefs Committee, as well as the Police Certificate, so that it can be examined in accordance with the law 516/1948. Failing this (…), your request will be considered as unacceptable.’ Despite all this, the Centre for Social Research, which was recruiting contract researchers, entrusted me with the leadership of one of their groups. I enthusiastically developed a project which linked up with the recent educational reform, and I got the support of the researchers that I had myself helped to train. Despite manifold difficulties, the results of our work started appearing in early 1967. In the hope of completing the writing up and defence of my thesis at the Sorbonne, I left for Paris for a few days in order to settle a number of administrative formalities at the University. It was at that time that the coup d’état of the colonels took place (21 April, 1967), leading to the instauration of the dictatorship. I was thus away from my family: my father-in-law was arrested and beaten up, my husband had to flee, colleagues from the Centre were arrested and tortured, a ‘wanted’ order was issued in my respect, my mother was thrown out of work, and the whole country found itself under lock and key… I therefore ended up stuck in Paris, where I was taken under the wing of my excolleagues, and offered once again my old post at the IEDES, together with occasional contracts with UNESCO. My husband joined me a few months later, and with the birth of a son, the project of completing my thesis on child psychology has to be abandoned. We remained in Paris for several years, without having the possibility of returning to Greece. However, our lives were now enriched by a child. On the professional level, I flourished: I actively pursued my research projects, I participated in conferences and scientific meetings, I was elected member of the Administrative Council of IEDES, as well as of the Publications Board of Tiers- Monde (1971–1975), and my articles were published in the latter journal, as well as in Prospects, and the International Review of Education. I took part in UNESCO studies on educational issues in Congo, Zaïre, the Central African Republic, as well as Senegal, and I published a book titled Enseignants Africains. Enquêtes au Congo et au Mali (1975). That same year I also defended my doctoral thesis in sociology on ‘The formation of a national conscience in the Popular Republic of Congo, and the role of education.’ I recall how my son, seeing me labouring the evenings away at the kitchen table, gave me some judicious advice: ‘Be careful, mum! The main thing is to keep upright.’ I had been a number of times to Congo on behalf of UNESCO, in order to estimate the impact of a range of educational policies, to evaluate the internal efficiency of Normal Schools, and to carry out a study on teaching reform. Strong ties of friendship and of mutual respect that had developed over time had reinforces my reflections on the construction of collective identities in new states, and had fed into the work I was doing on my thesis. The jury, presided by Georges Balandier, had commended my work to the French National Centre for Scientific Research, which supported its publication by Anthropos (Paris, 1976). I thus had the satisfaction of seeing my work favourably reviewed not only in specialized journals but also in Congo itself. We returned to Athens immediately after the defence of my thesis. The colonels had already abdicated in 1974. After the free elections we finally had a democratic regime and the emergency laws were abolished. ‘Fifteen years of my life, between coming and going; address books lost; friends made during one’s childhood and youth lost because of mail censorship. Friendships made, and unmade. Long periods of separation, of being torn away, torn apart. Finally, a return home. But which home? …Hellos and goodbyes (…) Friends dispersed across the planet. Paris, Brazzaville, Vienna, Jannina…I would need a world map to weave together again the threads of friendship…’ (Extract from a text written in 1998). We now had to find our place in our country. Not an easy task, since the university networks functioned like a brick wall, letting some in, leaving others out. Once again I took on temporary contracts with the National Research Centre, while at the same time publishing articles, books, and research reports. Just as during my fifteen year-long stay in France it had proved impossible to find paid work for research on Greek education, so now too, in my country, it seemed as if my experiences in Africa, and my intellectual engagement in that continent, were not only unappreciated, but even appeared extravagant. A book on Congolese poetry was a tangible outcome of my nostalgia for that country (1981). Finally, in 1984, my application for the post of a Chair at the University of Jannina was unanimously accepted. I served as adviser to the Minister of Education on popular education (1982–1984), and was visiting professor at the Free University of Brussels (1986–1987), and acting director of the National Pedagogic Institute (1989–1990). In 1990, I was engaged by the University of Athens, where I taught till my retirement. In the midst of all that, I did my best to keep in contact with colleagues from other countries, especially through my activities in international scientific organizations that I was a member of. I also ensured that my students profited from these privileged contacts with, among others, the European Association of Development, Research and Training Institutes—EADI (on whose executive committee I served three terms as an elected member, and whose work group on women and development I coordinated for five years); the International Association of Francophone Sociologists—AISLF (twice elected to office, and member of its research group on modes and processes of socialization); the Comparative Education Society in Europe—CESE (elected to its executive Council in 1992); and the Francophone Association of Comparative Education—AFEC (elected to office in 1991). The UNESCO Director nominated me, in my personal capacity, to the International Fund for the promotion of Culture (1982–1990), and to the Joint ILO/UNESCO Committee of Experts on the Recommendations concerning the Status of Teaching Personnel (CEART, 1989–2007). If this rather unusual career leaves the impression of an erratic itinerary (Greece, France, Congo, child psychology, pedagogy, sociology, teaching, research, a myriad engagements), there nevertheless is a unifying theme that enabled me to see each stage, each place, each challenge, transformed into an opportunity that bore fruit.