[1453 - 1821] Ottoman Greece (Tourkokratia)

The year is 1453. For a thousand years, Constantinople has been the heart of the Byzantine Empire, the last, glittering remnant of Rome. But now, the roar of Sultan Mehmed II’s super-cannons has fallen silent. The city’s legendary walls are breached, and the last emperor, Constantine XI Palaiologos, lies dead amongst his soldiers. The Ottoman crescent flag flies over the Hagia Sophia. For the Greek-speaking people of the Eastern Mediterranean, an entire world has just ended. This is the beginning of the *Tourkokratia*—the Turkish rule. Over the next decades, the last holdouts of Greek sovereignty—the Morea, the Empire of Trebizond—fall one by one. The familiar landscape of life is redrawn. The Byzantine eagle is gone. In its place is the formidable, highly organized structure of the Ottoman Empire. So, what was it like to be a Greek under the Sultan's rule for the next four centuries? It was a life of profound contradiction. The Ottomans were not primarily interested in forced mass conversion. Instead, they organized their vast, multi-ethnic empire using the *millet* system. A *millet* was a legally protected religious community, and the Greeks, as Orthodox Christians, belonged to the *Rum Millet* (the Roman Millet). At its head was the Patriarch of Constantinople. This was a stroke of administrative genius by the Sultans. Suddenly, the Patriarch was not just a religious leader; he was an *ethnarch*, a civil leader of his people, responsible for them, collecting their taxes for the Sultan, and representing them at the Sublime Porte, the Ottoman court. This system preserved the two pillars of Greek identity: the Orthodox Church and the Greek language. In the local village, the *pappas*, the priest, remained the center of the community, his chants a constant, familiar comfort in a world turned upside down. But this autonomy came at a steep price. As non-Muslims, or *zimmi*, Greeks were second-class subjects. They paid a heavy head tax, the *jizya*, a constant reminder of their subordinate status. They were forbidden from carrying arms, their testimony in court was worth less than a Muslim's, and the construction of new churches was heavily restricted. The sound of a church bell, once a joyful call to worship, was often silenced. And then there was the most terrifying practice of all: the *devşirme*, the "child levy." Periodically, Ottoman officials would arrive in a village, their leather boots creaking on the cobblestones, and select the strongest, brightest Christian boys, usually between the ages of 8 and 18. These boys were taken from their families, converted to Islam, and trained in the capital to become the elite of the empire. The most formidable among them would join the Janissaries, the Sultan's fearsome personal infantry, a force utterly loyal to him alone because they had no other family. For a Greek family, the *devşirme* was a recurring, living nightmare—a tax paid not in coin, but in blood. The practice was eventually phased out by the 17th century, but its memory was seared into the collective consciousness. Life became smaller, more local. The grand imperial stage was gone. For most, life was the cycle of the seasons in their village, the *koinotita*. Houses were simple, stone-built structures, often clustered together for protection. Clothing was practical: homespun wool and linen, a far cry from the opulent silks worn by Ottoman governors and pashas. Their world was one of olive groves, wheat fields, and vineyards, the rhythm of life dictated by planting and harvest. Yet, even in these dark centuries, the Greek spirit for commerce and intellectualism found ways to flourish. Wealthy Greek merchants, particularly from islands like Chios and Hydra, built vast shipping fortunes, their vessels crisscrossing the Mediterranean. In the Phanar district of Constantinople, a new class of elite Greeks emerged—the *Phanariots*. Highly educated, multilingual, and shrewd, they rose to powerful positions within the Ottoman administration, often serving as diplomats and governors of Ottoman principalities. They were both a source of pride and suspicion for their fellow Greeks—a symbol of what could be achieved within the system, but also a reminder of the compromises required. And where the mountains were too rugged for Ottoman cavalry to easily patrol, a different kind of Greek existed: the *Klephts*. The word means "thieves," and to the Ottomans, that is what they were—bandits who haunted the mountain passes, raiding travelers and defying authority. But to many ordinary Greeks, they were heroes, symbols of resistance. They were celebrated in folk songs, their exploits whispered around the fire—tales of daring escapes and defiance against the local Aga. Dressed in the distinctive white kilt, the *fustanella*, with a *yataghan* sword tucked in their sash, they embodied a spirit of untamed freedom. Sometimes, the Ottomans would try to co-opt this warrior spirit by hiring Christian militias, the *Armatoloi*, to police the mountain regions. But allegiances were fluid; an *Armatolos* one day could easily become a *Klepht* the next. The line between lawman and outlaw was as blurry as the mountain mist. As the 18th century dawned, a new wind began to blow from the West. The ideas of the European Enlightenment—liberty, reason, self-determination—filtered into the Greek world through merchants and intellectuals. A Greek diaspora in cities like Vienna, Venice, and Odessa became a hotbed of revolutionary thought. A man named Rigas Feraios, a writer and secretary, dreamed of not just a free Greece, but a pan-Balkan republic free from Ottoman rule. He composed a fiery poem, the *Thourios*, or "War Hymn," which became an underground anthem. "It is better to have one hour of free life," he wrote, "than forty years of slavery and prison." His dream was cut short. The Austrians arrested him and handed him over to the Ottomans, who executed him in 1798. But his words had already planted a seed. That seed would be watered by a secret society. In 1814, in the port city of Odessa, three Greek merchants founded the *Filiki Eteria*, the "Society of Friends." It was a clandestine revolutionary organization, modeled on the Freemasons, with secret codes, initiation rites, and a singular, explosive goal: to liberate the Greek homeland. They recruited members from all walks of life—merchants, priests, Phanariots, and, crucially, the *Klepht* warlords in the mountains. The network grew in silence, a web of conspiracy stretching from Russia to the Peloponnese. By 1820, the Society had hundreds of thousands of members. The air grew thick with anticipation. Four centuries of simmering resentment, of whispered stories, of secret schools in monastery cellars, of taxes and tributes, were about to reach their boiling point. The fuse had been lit. A storm was coming.