"In the middle of the Libyan Sea with its always foaming waters, wild, furious, bottomless. One hundred and seventy-five miles away from Piraeus. Close, very close to the shores of Africa. You'd think that soon Alexandria would appear before you, over there on the curve of the misty horizon. A few hours away from it. One hundred and forty to forty-five miles. A few houses. They look like shacks. People and animals sleep together. Poor islanders, unaccustomed and inexperienced, surrendered to various forms of exploitation. Little vegetation, a few dozen inhabitants. Opposite, to the north, the rugged Sfakia, Crete, and then nothing. Your eye gets tired of stretching out over the vast sea.
There, Gavdos! The other islands of exile come to mind. Those I've heard of, and those I've seen, tasted their bitterness myself. Let's take the main ones. Anafi, Folegandros, Ai Stratis, Sikinos, Nios, Sifnos, Amorgos. I can say without hesitation, not even in imagination can they compare in horror to this mouse island.
Here, an image of horror. The wild demise, the death of Karantemiris. How did he die? We didn't quite understand it ourselves, we didn't believe it, he was so strong. The strongest of all. A farmer from Agiasos of Mytilene. And yet. Down there you go strong, a rock in body like Karantemiris and you leave broken, hunched from the marshes. There's no escape down there. Elsewhere yes, down there no."