This is a story about resilience and beauty. Through a single human experience, we will come to understand a generation and a moment in history. Through the telling of Aristea Xilouris’s life story, and reflecting on my own, I’ve found that to love is to grieve, to grieve is to love. A heart broken is one cracked wide open. To be able to hold both grief and joy at the same time is to feel who and what we truly are—unconditional love. Meeting Aristea Xilouris was a gift to me, and now I share that gift with you.
Come with me to the mystical land of Crete as we make our way to the southern-most anchor point of Greece, the largest island the country has to offer. On the slopes of Psiloritis, the highest mountain in Crete, where Zeus was said to be born, lies a village called Anogeia. It’s as if time has stopped in this small village and preserved its local folk culture and customs. You might even find people still dressed in traditional costume here. The village is known for its music and art, which is what drew me here initially.
To love is to grieve, to grieve is to love.
When I first came to Anogeia, I felt a great sense of pride, honor, and strength emanating from its people. That energy has been carried from generation to generation. The simple fact that the village is still standing today after all it’s been through demonstrates the resilience this community has cultivated. It’s a heroic history that has brought me to tears in its tragedy and redemption. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes, Anogeia still burns bright today.
Before we meet Aristea, I feel it’s important to mention the tragic events that occurred in its past because it has shaped the land and its people. It sets the scene for understanding the experiences of those who lived through it. Anogeia has survived three holocausts. The village was burned twice, once in 1822 (during Greek War of Independence) and once in 1867 (during the Cretan Revolt against the Ottoman Empire). A small reprieve was given to rebuild their livelihoods only to be burned down again for a third time in 1944 during WWII. It was amid this critical time in history that Aristea Xilouris was born.
I met Aristea on a hot, summer afternoon in her weaving shop. At 90 years old, she still continues to run her local business. I found her on the loom mid-weave by the street-facing window as I entered the open shop door. Full of vibrant colors and patterns, every unique design had my eyes dancing across the room. Piles upon piles of beautiful, embroidered hand-crafted work filled the space, hanging from the walls and stacked from the ground up. Even with so many lovely things to look at, my gaze kept coming back to Aristea and her nimble hands on the loom as she paused to greet us.
Anogeia is also known for being the birthplace and home of the infamous singer, Lyra player, and composer, Nikos Xilouris. Aristea is his cousin. An artistic streak definitely runs in the family. Pain and hardships alchemized into beautiful offerings. One of my favorite songs by Nikos Xilouris is “Bikan Stin Poli H Ohtri,” which means “the enemies entered the city.” It tells the beautifully tragic story of the occupation and destruction of Anogeia with such grit and raw emotion. I feel this community’s infallible spirit through adversity, and it brings me to tears every time.
Aristea was seven years old when her home was destroyed during WWII and she was forced to leave, staying in the nearby city of Heraklion, where she went to school for five years until the end of the war. She was 13 years old when she learned how to weave. She has been doing it ever since and is a master of her craft.
Aristea reminded me so much of my grandmother, who lived through that time as well with her own fair share of war stories. The strength of these two women ran so parallel to each other, I was bound to fall in love with her like my own yiayia. Quick-witted and sharp, Aristea showed no signs of slowing down in her ripe age. Not only has weaving provided her and her family a means of work, but she also continues to find purpose and joy in it. It’s been with her through all the ups and downs of her life and continues to carry her forward.
When she began her work as a weaver, she did incredibly well for herself. She decided to expand and open a factory. She hired 80-100 women, and it became the largest weaving business in Crete, and the first women’s co-op in Greece. This is a remarkable accomplishment in its own right, but especially given the circumstances during this time period—the patriarchal culture, societal roles, standards, and limited freedom of women. The community of women created here was a powerful feat. She ran the business for 20 years, until significant familial changes caused her to dissolve it as she didn’t have enough support to continue. She used to ship all over Greece, but now she just has her one small shop in the village and focuses on her craft, selling only to those who come to see her in-person.
In her all-black attire, representing the status of a widow, Aristea has mourned many deaths. As a mother of five children, she lost her first daughter at 40 years old. I appreciated her candor as she openly shared with us these personal, delicate details of her life and yet it was said in such a matter-of-fact, this-is-life kind of way. Death shapes and defines us. We are forever changed by it, and it is woven into the tapestry of our stories. Not acknowledging death is a disservice to life—they’re two sides of the same coin. Aristea’s family line is continued by three sons and a daughter.
I hand selected each piece in Aristea’s collection. The love they were made and chosen with is truly felt. Every piece is beautiful and unique yet representative of a collective tradition. There’s one particular piece that Aristea had very specific instructions about. It took her an entire year to make, all hand-stitched, and she won’t ever make another one again. It would typically be a part of a prika, which is a gift given to a bride before her wedding. She wanted me to take it for that purpose, but I already have had one made for me from my grandmother for when that time comes. So this piece is a very special one and will be order by request only.
With no one to carry her tradition forward, what will happen to the weaving tradition in the next generations? One can only hope these gifts are still being passed down mother to daughter, grandmother to granddaughter. I would love to support the continuation of this beautiful craft. By supporting these local artisans, it's a step in the right direction.
There’s a universe behind Aristea’s eyes. The stories they could tell. This story only covers a bite size piece of it. But it's a way of honoring her and time-stamping her mark in the world—on me and all those who bring her art into their homes. A thread of her story weaves through with our own.
Aristea Xilouris's story is a story of a lived life. Of depth, rawness, resilience. It’s so heartbreaking to be human. To experience pain and tragedy. But it’s also beautiful. That flowers still grow, people still love, and we still keep showing up again and again. We have the capacity to experience and feel so much. It’s a gift.
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