Ahhhh the infamous “stratologia” (conscription)!

Back in the day, I served my motherland for thirty-two months. I was originally scheduled for thirty-four, but my “sentence” was reduced by two. The Navy went from thirty-six to thirty-four, the Air Force from thirty-four to thirty-two, and the Army from thirty-two to thirty. Why more in the Navy, you ask? Because the Navy was considered the better place to serve. Easier, more comfortable. In other words, for the so-called “sissys.” Cue the chorus: “In the Navy… come on, protect the motherland… in the Navy…”

I wore the uniform of the Air Force and as I “knew letters” (ηξερα γραμματα) aka I was educated, I worked my way up to Sergeant. For that honor, I earned eighty drachmae per month. Enough to buy a bus ticket to Athens and, if I skipped the fries, two souvlakia. Patriotism was cheaper back then. And what about the rest? They were not “officers” so they made zero, nada, zilch. What if you were poor, supporting a family? Still nada. Well not exactly. They made 18 drachmae a month. That’s comes out to about 45 cents. Patriotism has its own currency.

If you are born a boy (aren) “αρρεν,” you are obligated to serve. It is not a choice but a Greek privilege and honor. If you are born a girl? Congratulations, you get to marry one of us afterwards.

In Greece, there are three inevitabilities: death, taxes, and the stratologia. Death is mercifully swift. Taxes can sometimes be avoided. But stratologia? That one hunts you to the end of the world.

It begins with the letter. Not a letter of love, nor even of blackmail. This one arrives with the state seal, heavy as a curse, inviting you to serve your country. There’s no “maybe later.” The homeland is patient, but not that patient.

You arrive at the draft office at dawn, only to find the line already stretching down the block. Pale recruits, grandmothers with folders, and one man who seems to have been here since 1983. You realize quickly this is not a building, it’s a waiting room for Hades, only with flickering fluorescent tubes instead of torches.

Inside, you face the sacred liturgy of documents. You shuffle papers like a gambler praying for good cards: birth certificate, ID, tax number, blood type, school diplomas, proof of baptism, and ideally a note from your general practitioner. Miss one? “Λυπάμαι, ελάτε αύριο.” (I’m sorry, come back tomorrow). The clerk says it with the calm efficiency of bureaucrats who know resistance is useless.

Then comes the doctor. He studies you for five seconds, scribbles something like Ι3 on your file, and sends you on your way. You don’t know if this means you’re free, condemned, or being shipped to Crete to peel potatoes until the Second Coming.¹

Extensions are possible, but each one is an expedition. To earn a deferral, you must gather documents stamped by consulates, notarized by deans, blessed by bishops, and ideally signed by your village priest who baptized you. And even then, the clerk looks at you and mutters the national slogan: “Δυστυχώς δεν γίνεται.” (Unfortunately, it cannot be done).

But the true horror of stratologia is that it never ends. Even when you think you’ve escaped—moved abroad, started a family, grown old—the system remembers. Men have been tracked down at airports in their 40s, greeted like long-lost friends and handed fresh call-up papers. It waits in silence, patient as the Minotaur.

This summer, it was my son’s turn to meet the beast. Born in the USA, raised in the USA, studied in the USA and yet when he tried to fly back after visiting us, he was stopped at Athens airport as a draft dodger (ανυπότακτος). Interrogated, screened twice, even questioned by a district attorney. In the end, he was allowed to leave with a warning: Don’t come back unless you fix your papers.

Why? Because he was born a boy (αρρεν) to a Greek father. That was enough for the Stratologia to whisper, GOTCHA! He may carry an American passport, but to Greece he is a Greek National, an EU citizen, and therefore—by birthright—military property. He now has “the letter” to prove it. He had to report in Kalamata to serve in the artillery division of the Army (sic).

The law says he can be exempted as a Greek living abroad (Έλληνας εξωτερικού). Sounds simple, right? Not quite. To prove it, he must summon an army of paperwork: every school transcript since kindergarten, every college record, every tax return showing him as a dependent, a pay stub, a lease, all passports he’s ever held, certified proof that he has never lived in Greece more than six months. And since he’s lived in multiple U.S. states, each consulate must issue its own certificate, then forward it to the current consulate, which forwards it to Athens, which forwards it to the Stratologia, which may—or may not—decide to erase the €6,000 fine for being an ανυπότακτος and issue the coveted exception certificate.

And yes, you guessed it—Dad is now the one collecting the papers. A one-man Theseus, chasing transcripts and tax returns. Hopefully, the Greek Consulates will eventually respond, though so far they’ve remained silent for two months. Perhaps they’re waiting for the stars to align, or just for another stamp to be invented.

A labyrinth with no Ariadne and no thread, just endless photocopies and consular stamps.

Because Greece has many gods: Poseidon, Athena, Dionysus… but none are as eternal as Stratologia. It lurks in silence, patient as the Minotaur, and when you least expect it, it steps out of the shadows, whispering one word: aren (Αρρεν).

Footnotes (for the initiated):

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