- Mayor Vasilis Kegeroglou condemns the “degeneration” of Cretan customs into violence.
- He warns that “arsenals, lost lives, and vendettas” have no place in modern Crete.
- Locals agree: tradition ends where automatic weapons begin.
Somewhere between Zorba the Greek and John Wick 3: Heraklion, Crete lost the plot.
After the bloodshed in the village of Vorizia, Mayor Vasilis Kegeroglou went on national television to remind everyone that we are, technically, living in the 21st century — an era with courts, mediators, and, theoretically, fewer bullets.
“Εκφυλισμός,” he called it — degeneration. And he is not wrong. What began centuries ago as rituals of honor, sheep, and sharp tongues has mutated into armed theatre. It is no longer tradition; it is target practice with folklore branding.
From Pride to Paranoia
Cretans once fired guns in celebration — at weddings, baptisms, and even on random Tuesdays. The bullets went skyward, the raki went inward, and everyone went home alive. That was the rule.
Now, as Kegeroglou points out, there are “arsenals” hidden in barns that could supply a small Balkan republic. “It’s not just one illegal gun anymore,” he said. “It’s entire collections.”
Translation: Grandma’s dowry chest might contain an RPG.
The Myth of the “Old Custom”
Some still defend vendettas as “heritage.” They claim, “It’s how our grandfathers solved things.” True — but their grandfathers also plowed fields with donkeys and died of tooth infections. Progress means not repeating what has come before.
“Today we have justice,” said the mayor. “We have mediation. We do not need revenge.”
In other words, when someone insults your goat, you can file a report instead of a eulogy.
The Geography of Drama
The tragedy in Vorizia is not an isolated case. Every few years, somewhere in rural Crete, honor and adrenaline mix like raki and gasoline. The results are predictable: press helicopters, police blockades, and one more headline that begins with “A small village in mourning…”
Yet life goes on. By Monday, the same villagers are back at the kafeneio arguing about olive prices and which cousin should really inherit the field by the fig tree—the circle of life — and litigation.
The Real Tradition Worth Keeping
If Crete wants to honor its ancestors, it might start by keeping its children alive. Real tradition is music, hospitality, and defiant laughter — not gunfire echoing off Psiloritis.
Because the only thing more Cretan than pride is survival.
And as one old man outside the kafeneio put it, shaking his head:
“In the old days, we fired in the air to celebrate life. Now they fire at each other to prove they have one.”
That line should go straight into the following Eurostat report — right under “Greece: Champion of Goats and Grudges.”
In Crete, gunfire is still the unofficial soundtrack of the weekend. You hear it in the distance every Saturday night — not war, not warning shots, just another wedding or christening somewhere, where joy comes with live ammunition. The tradition began as celebration, a skyward salute to love and pride, but over the years it has blurred into something darker. The raki flows, the music climbs, and someone always decides to remind the village that he owns a gun. Tourists duck, locals shrug, and by Sunday morning the same echoes roll down the hills — as if the island itself were sighing, “We are better than this.”
