"In the middle of the Libyan sea with its always foaming waters, wild, furious, unfathomable. One hundred and seventy-five miles away from Piraeus. Close, very close to the shores of Africa. You would think that soon Alexandria will emerge in front of you, beyond the curve of the misty horizon. Quite a few hours away from it. One hundred and forty-five miles. A few houses. They look like ruins. People and animals sleep together. Poor islanders, ignorant and uncultivated, surrendered to various forms of exploitation. Little vegetation, a few dozen inhabitants. Across, to the north, the rugged Sfakia, Crete, and then nothing. Your eye gets tired of stretching out to the boundless sea.
Here is Gavdos! Other islands of exile come to mind. Those I have heard of, and those I have seen, I myself have tasted their bitterness. Let's take the main ones. Anafi, Folegandros, Agios Stratis, Sikinos, Nios, Sifnos, Amorgos. Without hesitation, I can say that not even in imagination can they be compared in horror to this mouse island.
Here is an image of horror. The wild massacre, the death of Karantemiris. How did he die? We ourselves did not even understand it well, we did not believe it, he was so strong. The strongest of all. A farmer from Agiasso in Mytilene. And yet. There you go strong, a rock in the body like Karantemiris, and you come back shattered, bent over by the waves. There is no escape down there. Elsewhere, yes, but not down there."