The Power of Hope in Difficult Times

Life is full of challenges, and everyone faces moments when the path forward seems uncertain. During these difficult times, one of the strongest forces that helps us continue is hope. Hope is more than just a feeling; it is a guiding light that gives us the strength to keep moving even when everything seems dark.

When people go through hardships such as loss, failure, or loneliness, hope reminds them that tomorrow can be better. It allows us to believe in new beginnings and motivates us to work toward them. Without hope, even the smallest obstacles can feel overwhelming, but with hope, even the greatest challenges become bearable.

Hope is not blind optimism. It does not ignore reality, but rather teaches us to face it with courage. It inspires creativity, resilience, and patience. A hopeful person can turn problems into opportunities for growth, because hope provides the energy to search for solutions instead of giving up.

In my own life, I have found that hope often comes from the people I love and from the goals I set for myself. Whenever I have felt discouraged, remembering my dreams and the support around me has given me the courage to try again. Each small step forward becomes easier when hope is present in my heart.

Hope is like a seed planted deep within us. With care and faith, it grows stronger every day, even in the hardest seasons. For me, hope is not only a personal strength but also a gift I want to share with others. By encouraging and supporting each other, we can spread hope and remind the world that no night lasts forever—the dawn always comes.

Longing

for K. Sello Duiker

I sleep when I am tired

When there’s a hummingbird in my mouth

A starling swimming in a cup of honey

On my kitchen table

I was so good at giving 

my heart away to the flowers,

to the rain, to the sky, 

to the empty field behind my house

I am tired of being mentally ill,

this chronic sickness,

this flame

the powers that be

I watch it burn between my fingers

It tastes of Palestine

Cold stone turned into rubble

Make it go away

But it doesn’t go away

Look!

Wildflowers have started 

to grow next to my bed in the hospital

next to the bars at my window

I needed sanity in my life

Every woman needs that

So I imagined their beauty,

their growth

the growth and beauty 

of the wildflowers

Every woman needs that

In my bedroom, at home

a cobweb covers the rose,

my mother’s wizened hands

and fingers as she makes my bed

She bought me a journal,

a new pen,

new books

She places these gifts

on the table next to my bed

welcoming me home

She doesn’t say that she loves me

She doesn’t say that I’ve been missed

The gifts are enough

The fact that they tidied up my room

that my mother’s made up my bed

I dance in the Imperial dark

by myself, barefoot,

to the lonely notes of pianist Olga Scheps

The bathwater turns into seawater

The kitchen turns into the shore

I hug the red fox 

bleeding into the sheet

I hand my father his teeth

and towel-dry my hands

I watch him shave

We read the newspaper

in the sitting room

We drink coffee

We eat cheese sandwiches

We talk

Years later

I am standing in the kitchen

thinking back to my first breakdown

My brother makes eggs 

While he makes the eggs

he shouts at me

Those were his words and not my own,

I tell myself

I ate the green olives gingerly

Olives for breakfast

They tasted delicious and cold

The men in my life

that tension and spark

didn’t know what to do

with me really

Only that I could never

be wife material

Only that I could never 

raise children

Oh, madwomen couldn’t do that

Years later

I am alone

remembering all of this

all of them

remembering the breakdown

how it changed me

how it broke me in waves

The kitchen turns into the shore

The bathwater turns into seawater

I sink

I fall

I think

I know it all

Cloud people turn to dust in the rain

Another year turns into a birthday cake

A woman brings life into the world

The father, my brother, nurtures the child

Calls his daughter “Princess”

My father loves me

He turns the wrinkled prunes 

and custard into a feast meal

I was loved

I am loved

I will love myself and take care of myself

It’s much too late

The clock doesn’t work anymore

Yes, it’s much too late.

flame

in the silence

in this, this lonely hour

Gaza falls

like the neck of a wildflower falls

this too shall pass

do you remember the past

your past

i am in the cave again

how your voices warm my heart

how your voices comfort me

a bird spilled out of me

i am 19 years old

getting on a bus to Johannesburg

not knowing I will go mad there

that it will be six months

before I will see the sun again

the leaves are sad for me

this singing forest, my mother

there is a terror inside of me

the voices murmur something

something about a baptism

i am only a passenger

a passenger who lost her mind

the marbles rock the children to sleep

the children i will never have

the son and daughter i will never have

speak, memory of light, of war

before I disinherit you

summer. salt. tears

the highway falls through the sky

i read everything

i can even read your mind,

this silence

this perception and topography of light healed all my wounds

bloodless grass

on reading that sad story Flowers For Algernon

flame

tomato seeds plastered on my tongue

tasting of summer in the salad

droplets of seawater

against my skin

cold. wet. plasma

the shake of the fish seismic

these pills fill me or are they peas

please fix me, i cried

my mother doesn’t love me

i doubt she ever has

perhaps when i was a baby

no

perhaps when i cried

in her own mother’s arms

i don’t know

perhaps when she knew

that i was going to be a writer

at eight

well, maybe

at twelve, when the typewriter appeared

perhaps when she 

bought adult diapers for me

but she never told me,

her manic depressive daughter

in so many words

that she loved me

i am still crying

middle-aged i am still crying

please, please fix me

fix what is broken

make me whole again

bring my father back to life

i’m changing

i’m changing

watch how proteas grow

out, yes, out of my fingers

watch how they hiss, 

snake and groove

just look at how perfect the day is

Don’t you forget about me, pinky swear promise me, R.

I’m sick, R.

It’s my kidneys

(they don’t

work so nicely

anymore) and

my heart and 

so sometimes

I get tired. So, so 

tired. Today was

one of those 

days. You’re

two-years-old so 

you don’t really

understand

but I’m telling

you anyway so

that you’ll

understand one day

So, today you

weren’t mine

So, today you

didn’t belong 

to me. Your

father kept you

 hidden from me.

You didn’t 

sing for me. We

didn’t watch

 television together.

I didn’t 

cook for you.

I was crazy, he 

said. I felt no

shame. Many 

people had

called me that. I 

sat in my bedroom

as your father 

shouted at me.

Where’s the food?

He screamed, as

he walked down

the passage

with you in his arms

You do goddam

nothing in this

 house. It didn’t

matter. Nothing 

mattered. Only

the composer 

Maurice Ravel.

I could feel him 

in my bones, you

know? He was

shielding 

me from my

brother’s gaze.

Lifting me towards

the foam of the

sea threatening

to engulf me via

the ceiling . Oh,

you’ll see. You’ll forget 

me. Just like

other family members, 

just like my mother

on my birthday, the 

church, the

Johannesburg

People. This

memory of

isolation is so 

deep. Today

you didn’t ask for

me but that

didn’t make me cry

It was, forget

about her, she’s

crazy, (I mean

what kind of man

says that 

to a two year old.)

Soon I’ll disappear,

vanish like chocolate

into thin air. There’s

no key that can fit

into the cage

of my heart

anymore. Shush.

Close your eyes.

Go to sleep. I

am only a dream.

He screams and

screams. The man

screams and

screams at me

but all I can hear

is Olga Scheps  and

Maurice Ravel. Look!

I am turning

into a pianist,

a composer. They’re

standing for me

like they stood for

Beethoven. There’s

no more pain.

Everything that

I do is still wrong

but there’s no more

pain. There’s no

longer a cage in

front of and behind

me, an order and

routine of isolation.

Zest

Previously published in Down in the Dirt Magazine

“Hello, Deb,” said the tall man softly. He approached the 22-year-old, ironically, she thought, in the produce section at the supermarket.
Deb looked up, her hand poised over the navel oranges, her mother’s favorite. She didn’t recognize him at first; he had changed: more gray, a few additional pounds and the clothing was vastly different. When last she’d seen John Bowen, he had effected a more rustic look: plaid flannel shirts and washed out jeans and coarse work boots. A studied, rugged persona better suited to ensnaring young lovers, she thought testily. But now, he was every bit the young professional: dress slacks, fancy shoes and a blazer that probably cost more than the car she drove. He also sported some exotic cologne.

“How’ve you been?” asked John.
Deb narrowed her eyes at him. “What’s it to you?” she asked frostily. Deb had been one of John’s many sexual conquests, if only for a weekend. But that was the least of it.
John lowered his eyes for a moment, for effect, thought Deb. “You’ve a right to feel that way,” he said.

“You have no idea how I feel,” she said. “How could you? You booked the moment you got my mother pregnant. Off to scale new heights, make a name for yourself; the woman you impregnated–and your child–be damned! You never called–not once!” She seethed.
John looked around uneasily. “Keep it down, will you?” he asked.
“Why?” she asked, just as loudly.
“I’m back in the area,” he explained, “on business. I can’t afford a scene. I have a reputation to uphold, you see.”
“Is that supposed to interest me somehow?” Deb asked.

“Maybe not,” he admitted. He’d try a different tack. “How’s Beth–and the baby?”
“They’re doing fine–without you!” said Deb fiercely.
“I’d like to see them.” There, he’d said it.
This drew Deb up short. As much as she detested John Bowen for what he did to her family, who was she to say that he could learn nothing of his own child? She felt torn.

As if sensing her indecision, John said, “Can I see them?”
She reached a decision. “Let me talk to Mom,” she told him.
He smiled. “Great.”
She frowned back at him. “No,” she said. “Not great. I’ll always hate you for what you did to Mom, but I’m big enough to get over myself and see if she wants to talk to you about your child.”
John nodded. “Good enough.”

Reflexively pulling out their respective cell phones, they exchanged numbers and email addresses. That done, Deb turned away, plunked a couple of navel oranges into her cart and wheeled off in the opposite direction without another word. She didn’t look back.
John watched her disappear down the aisle.
– – –
Two nights later, Deb received a call on her cell. She saw the caller ID and frowned.
“Yes?” she said.
“Hi, Deb,” said John. “I wondered if you’d had a chance to speak to Beth.”
“Not yet,” she said tersely, and nothing more.
After a moment, John said, “Well, when will you do it?”
“I’ll do it when I do it,” she snapped, then glanced at Beth, who was cooking dinner. Her mother looked up at Deb’s sharp tone, but said nothing. Deb was always arguing with her boyfriend nowadays. Beth shrugged and stirred the pot.

“I’ll call you,” said Deb. “Yes, tomorrow.” She disconnected.
“More problems with Brian?” asked Beth solicitously.
Deb drew a blank for an instant and then said, “Yeah, same old same old.”
After dinner, and a shower for Deb, mother and daughter sat on the sofa, sipping coffee. Deb continued to struggle with her dilemma.
Suddenly Beth spoke up, “Are you ready to tell me now, Baby?”
Deb looked up in surprise. “Tell you what?” she asked.
“About that mysterious phone call you got before dinner.”
“I told you it was…”
Beth interrupted, “Brian called while you were in the shower. Told me he couldn’t get through on your cell. He was impatient, said he had to speak with you.”

“Oh,” said Deb.
“Baby,” said Beth, “are you seeing another man on the side?”
“What!” exclaimed Deb.
“You were furtive over the phone, and I thought…”
“No, Mom, I’m not seeing anyone behind Brian’s back,” she assured her. “How could you even think that? You know you and Dad didn’t raise me like that.”
At the mention of her late husband, Beth smiled tenderly. She had been feeling awfully lonely lately. She sighed.

“Are you alright, Mom?” Deb asked.
“Never mind me,” said Beth. “Who were you talking to?”
Deb made up her mind to come clean. Honesty had always been the glue that held their family together. “I ran into John,” she said.
Beth froze in place and replaced her cup on the saucer with a little click. “Where?” she asked.
“Kroger,” replied Deb. “In the produce section,” she added.

Catching the irony at once, Beth twisted her lips and said, “You didn’t spill any fruit, did you?” Beth had first met John at the grocery when, shackled to a walker following the automobile accident that had taken her husband, she spilled the oranges and John retrieved them. Later, when John became a student in Deb’s writing group, they became better acquainted.
“No,” replied Deb.
“Did he…” began Beth.
“He asked about you,” said Deb. “And the baby.”
“So he knows…”

“He only knows that you gave birth to a child. I didn’t go into any details. I thought I’d leave that to you.”
“What did you tell him?” asked Beth.
“I told him I’d talk to you and then get back to him tomorrow.”
“Give me his number, Deb, and I’ll call him.”
“Mom…”
“I can handle it, Baby. It should come from me.”
– – –
The next evening, at the tentative knock at the door, Beth, cane in hand, walked cautiously across the living room and opened the door. There stood John, dressed to kill, looking otherwise just as Beth remembered him.
“Hello, John,” she said, her mind irresistibly drawn to the one night of intimacy they’d shared so long ago. She had thought it might lead to something, but it never did.
John stared at her. “Beth, what happened? You’re walking on your own now!” he said happily.

Beth permitted herself a little smile at his apparent joy. “I had surgery, actually two surgeries,” she told him. “Almost a year ago.”
“Well, you look wonderful,” he went on, smiling broadly.
“Come in,” she invited, remembering her manners. Beth had thought about John all night, the good memories as well as the bleak, and hadn’t decided yet how to receive him. Now she thought she would play it by ear, see where his head was at. “Sit down,” she told him, leading the way to the sofa. Where John had first kissed her, nearly three years before. It seemed a lifetime ago now.

“Can I get you anything, John?” she asked, always the genial host.
“I’m good.”
They sat awkwardly, John staring at his shoes and Beth gazing about the living room. At length, John said, “You had a child.”
Beth stared into his blue eyes; eyes she’d fallen in love with. “Yes,” she said, “I named him Kevin, after my father.” Why had he come? she wondered. He had moved on, as had she. Or had she? John was still handsome, she thought.

“It’s a good name,” remarked John agreeably. “Is he here? Could I see him?” he asked.
“Kevin is away,” she said hesitantly. “With my parents.”
John nodded. “Where do they live, Beth?”
“They’re in Michigan,” she replied.
“Is that where you’re from?” John asked.
“Yes.”
“When will he return home, Beth? I’d really like to finally meet him.”

“Why did it take years to kindle your interest, John?” she asked, bristling with suspicion at his sudden interest.
“I…I don’t know, I was in school, you know, and then I had to get my license and find a job.”
“And did you accomplish all that?” she asked archly.
“Yes,” he said slowly, mindful of her bantering tone. “I work for Boeing, in Seattle, and it looks like my career is set.”
“Good for you, John,” said Beth neutrally.

“Look, Beth,” said John, “I know you must have mixed feelings about our relationship, about what went down 3 years ago and how it ended…”
“You’re right about that, John,” agreed Beth. “It did end.”
John stopped talking.
“Why are you here, John?” she asked. “I know it has nothing to do with me. And I have a hard time believing you woke up one day to find yourself teeming with parental concern. Why are you here?” she repeated.

“Alright,” he said, “I’ll tell you. I’m married now. To a wonderful girl.” He regarded Beth, but she seemed strangely indifferent. He knew she’d fallen hard for him, but now she seemed so detached. He shook his head to clear it. “We have a perfect marriage, but for one thing: she can’t have children. And she wants kids.”
He looked into Beth’s eyes again, but saw nothing.
“So you thought,” said Beth, “that you had the perfect solution. You had a ready-made family waiting for her here in Chicago. Given your MO, it’s possibly you have many such children sprinkled throughout Illinois,” she went on sarcastically.

“Suzanne,” said John, referencing his wife, “is a well-regarded attorney. She has political connections, too. She can make things happen.”
“Things like the rapid, no-questions-asked adoption of a child?” suggested Beth.
“That’s right. I’ll put it to you, Beth: even with a cane, you can barely get around; nothing’s changed, really. Raising a child has to be a monumental burden for you. We’ll give you $1 million to agree to the adoption and to permanently waive all custody rights.”
“I love both my children!” said Beth vehemently. “I always will.”
“I know that,” said John. “But, let’s be reasonable, Beth. You’ve spent your whole life raising children and financially living on the edge. Take the money…”

“And run?” she asked sardonically.
“Would you at least think about it and consider what this could mean for you and Deb? Kevin would want for nothing: the best schools, the…”
“I don’t need to think about it, John,” she told him, interrupting.
“Then your answer is no?” he asked, frowning ominously.
“My answer,” she said, “is yes.”
“What?” he asked, “Just like that?”
“Just like that. But, you’ll have to go to Michigan to pick him up.”
“Give me the address,” he said, pulling out his cell. ‘You’ll need to call your folks and clear it.”

“That won’t be possible,” said Beth.
When he looked up, she said, “No service.”
Before John could ask any additional questions or make any more demands, Beth came clean. “Kevin suffered Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, John, SIDS, at 5 months. No reason for it, really. Sometimes it just happens. That’s what they told me, the social workers and the doctors.”
John stared at her, aghast. “But, you said Kevin was with your parents in Michigan.” he protested.
“My parents passed away years ago. Our family vault is in Michigan, in Millwood Cemetery. Google it,” she suggested coldly.
– – –
Hours later, when Deb had returned from her date, Beth was sitting on the sofa, a glass of sangria on the coffee table before her. Deb approached her cautiously and said quietly, “Did you tell him?”
Beth looked up sadly and nodded. “I told him that your brother Kevin died at 5 months of crib death. That he’s buried in Michigan in the family vault alongside your grandparents.”

“Mom,” said Deb gently.
Beth looked up.
“Who the hell is Kevin?”
Beth smiled.
“And grandma and grandpa aren’t dead! Ooh!” she said. “You did a number on him.”
“Who knows,” said Beth, “there’s apt to be a Kevin interred in a crypt somewhere in Michigan. But I don’t think that John will hang around the Midwest long enough to find out. He’ll be making other plans.”
“Won’t he be able to check the web to see the names aren’t the same?” asked Deb.

“Your sister’s middle initial is K, remember; close enough. And I’m thinking that the shock will knock him for a loop. Besides, you can’t trust the internet on anything. And so what if they do find out the truth? Screw ’em. They want a young child. Annie will be too old for them by the time we’re through with the courts. Besides, your grandma is a pretty damn good lawyer herself.”

Deb decided to change the subject. “When are grandma and grandpa bringing Annie back from L.A.?” she asked.
“Saturday,” replied Beth. “Their plane is landing at Midway Airport at 9am. I can hardly wait to hold your sister again!”
“Now,” said Deb, taking a seat, “tell me the whole story.”
Beth did.

Jeju

This is where the tangerines fell,

       the fruits that made my tummy blow up 

This is where I learned to ride a bike,

Downhill, no brakes, just me and my dad

This is where I got dirt under my nails 

       and I ran with no shoes  

This is where we ran until we fell 

       the waves were loud and big  

       the wind smells like fish

       and all my childhood memories sit

This is where I felt free.

       No one ever stopping me.

Warm Breeze 

A leaf falls softly from a tree 

It spins slowly 

Landing on the ground with the others 

Making a pile of red and brown 

An ant walks across the ground 

Carrying a crumb bigger than itself 

It works all day long 

Trying to bring food back to its home 

A bee flies from flower to flower 

It buzzes loudly in the air 

Helping plants grow strong and healthy 

A butterfly floats in the warm air

Spreading its beautiful wings

It lands on a flower for a moment 

But calmly drifts away 

A flower stands in the middle of the field 

As the smell of honey fills the atmosphere,

Its petals bloom 

It sways gently in the warm breeze

Sunlem and Bright

They hang on branches,

They are Sunlem and bright

They smell fresh and bitter 

They are like a small burst of summer.

They feel smooth and cool.

They ooze refreshing juice 

They taste sour at first 

They bring a little sweet at last 

They wake up the senses

They brighten every meal

Summer Kim is a student writer attending a school in New Jersey with a love for quiet stories, late-night journaling, and the rhythm of well-crafted sentences. Her work explores memory, identity, and the small moments that shape us. When she’s not writing, she enjoys reading contemporary poetry and walking through the woods.

Blessing Notes

I look at the world,

I step out

Of luxury.

I am an unspoken solace.

Who knocked me down?

Who raised me like flower?

I met thousands of walkers,

I kissed one art like life.

My departure must be happy,

I look at you,

A bare silence eating you

From within.

Expressions can fill your eyes,

And make you empty

To fill like a dance of worship.

Rejoice in expression

Buy in blessing notes,

Your own version of

The world.

Come Together

Come again

Let’s kiss the rose.

Let it bloom,

Let it not be plucked

Like the lie

That befell as a curse

By the ugly world

That tried to separate us.

There is a dark rain

That fell at night

Silent like a lost key.

I rose like holy chants

At the midnight hour.

Yes, the night was howling

The secrets of dawn

Which it foresaw as a life

In us.

The time is still passing

Like our heartbeats.

The rose will not fade

Like the unloving world.

Dying of Hunger

There is a statue,

An old one.

It has an umbrella

For the rain,

Boots for the feet,

And a smile

For the weak.

I can only relate it to

The under nourished world

Where unborn artists

Who sculpts such statues

Die of hunger

In their childhood.

Bittersweet Symphony

The evening falls,

I hear your departure.

Preaching sermons

Make me weak,

I keep chanting for your presence,

The faded photograph smiles

At my darkness.

One thin touch of remembrance

Can cure the amnesiac memory,

In love’s bittersweet symphony.

Stars sing,

The moon lays its opera.

The universe is a spiritual dot,

My mask is your honesty,

Nothing is hidden among us.

We share dreams

And the world kisses your feet.

I surrender to your footsteps

And I knock down my gate

Of unmoving walls.

Imagination spills

And lightens up the night sky.

I have created a beloved

In my poetry.

Updated Bio: Sushant Thapa has published Nine books of English poetry, namely: The Poetic Burden and Other Poems (Authorspress, New Delhi, 2020), Abstraction and Other Poems (Impspired, UK, 2021), Minutes of Merit (Haoajan, Kolkata, 2021), Love’s Cradle (World Inkers Printing and Publishing, New York, USA and Senegal, Africa, 2023), Spontaneity: A New Name of Rhyme (Ambar Publication House, New Delhi, 2023), Chorus of Simplicity and Other New Poems (Ukiyoto Publishing, 2024), Finding My Soul in Kathmandu (Ukiyoto Publishing, 2024), The Walking Rebel Micropoems and Poems (Transcendent Zero Press, Houston, Texas, USA) and My Grandfather Had Been a Cowboy (Ukiyoto Publishing, 2025). He has also published a collection of flash fiction and short stories titled “The One Rupee Taker and Other Stories from Nepal” published in 2024 by Ukiyoto Publishing. Sushant has translated a book of poems by Nepalese Poet Kamal Dhungana entitled “Dark Shadows”. It was published by Authorspress, New Delhi, India in 2022. He is an English lecturer in Biratnagar, Nepal.   

The Cloudy Sky

Beneath the veil of shifting silver haze,

The sun retreats, its fire dimmed to gray.

Soft winds unravel in a muted phrase,

And shadows wander where the clouds now play.

A choir of vapors gathers, slow and wide,

Their restless forms like ships upon the sea.

They drift and merge, then scatter, then collide,

A canvas brushed with storms yet meant to be.

No star can pierce this shroud of wandering mist,

Nor moonlight carve a path through heaven’s veil.

Yet in the hush, a secret peace exists,

A promise whispered where the tempests sail.

Don Bormon is a student of grade ten in Harimohan Government High School, Chapainawabganj, Bangladesh.

Throughout history, there are figures that never fade with time. Figures that, even if born from mythical imagination or ancient philosophical thought, continue to inspire, challenge, and teach. One such figure is Heracles – a hero who didn’t just accomplish twelve labors, but who shaped an entire cultural and ethical worldview across the centuries.

With deep emotion and admiration, Eviasmile today hosts an interview that unfolds Heracles not as a mere myth, but as a multifaceted phenomenon: historical, ethnological, philosophical, artistic, and profoundly human. The artist and researcher Konstantinos Fais, through his visual creations and in-depth study, guides us into the fascinating world of Heracles – from ancient Erytheia to Euboea and the Lichadonisia – proving that this hero is more modern and relevant than ever.

1. I came to know you through Mrs. Eva Petropoulou-Lianou, with whom I’ve been collaborating for the past year. Upon discovering your work, I was deeply moved and thought to engage in an interesting conversation about the Path of Heracles. How did your involvement with Heracles begin?

First of all, I must mention that Mrs. Petropoulou-Lianou is a calm yet powerful force in the realm of culture. Despite her cultural and humanitarian actions evolving on a global scale, she chooses to avoid showiness and unnecessary spectacle.

As for Heracles, although I was fascinated by his myth since childhood, my intensive engagement with the hero began about eight years ago, when I decided to delve into highlighting primarily Greek and broader Mediterranean culture through visual art. A thorough study of Greco-Roman literature – essential for understanding Heracles – introduced me to incredible dimensions of the myth that geographically extend beyond Hellenism, even as it developed during the Second Major Greek Colonization of the Archaic period.

The myth’s excellence became strikingly apparent and admittedly captivated me. Heracles not only survived the fall of the Greek world with the rise of the Roman Empire, but became a symbol of strength and bravery, a tool of political symbolism, and an archetype embraced by emperors. Leaders and entire dynasties in the ancient world claimed descent from him – for example, Leonidas of Sparta was considered his 20th descendant, Alexander the Great his 27th, along with Pyrrhus I of Epirus and Fabius Maximus.

From the fall of the Roman Empire through the Byzantine period, the Renaissance, and the Enlightenment, Heracles of Thebes retains his status as a paragon of chivalry, arriving in our times with undiminished prestige…in such a way that all other heroes pale in comparison.

2. According to your research, do you believe this hero really existed? What can we learn from his mythology and how can it influence modern life?

First, allow me to congratulate you on your bold and deeply thoughtful question. It’s my belief that this most dazzling chapter of Greek Mythology and of Hellenism as a whole contains a strong historical core.

It may be that the myth was inspired by a prominent Greek figure from the Bronze Age, or a succession of notable individuals whose deeds merged into a unified mythological narrative. The ethnological approach, based on Greek and Roman sources starting with Herodorus of Pontus, suggests that there were at least seven mythical figures named Heracles – and the Roman scholar Varro mentions 43! Roman author Mavrus Servius Honoratus notes that even before the Roman Empire, any man of immense strength was dubbed “Heracles” by the Romans.

Of course, there’s also the contrasting theory that the myth is a purely philosophical construct, its interpretation shifting with the times and the author. Regardless, the knowledge and values transmitted through the myth – from archaic and classical antiquity to modern life – constitute undeniable cultural and moral wealth.

The truth is that Heracles’ myth is transformed throughout recorded history: from Homer’s “performer of great deeds,” to the “king of empires from East to West” in Dio Chrysostom, and then to the “benefactor of the people” in John Tzetzes of the 12th century AD. His character evolves fascinatingly.

Consider the myth’s wide reach in the ancient world – from the island of Erytheia west of Tartessos to the Aornis Rock in Asia, from the Hyperboreans to Ethiopia – people everywhere told of his exploits. As for what he teaches us: to purify our soul and follow the path of Virtue requires constant struggle and sacrifice, regardless of origin or status.

Despite his many epic feats, if I were to choose one defining moment of his life, it would be the famous allegory by the sophist Prodicus – the crossroad where Heracles must choose between Virtue and Vice, ultimately choosing Virtue. As Pythagoras also said, it is the difficult tasks that lead to virtue, not the pleasant ones. He called virtue “the law of the gods” and great-heartedness, prudence, and bravery “strong anchors.”

3. In exploring the etymology of the name “Heracles,” I found that it means “the glory of Hera.” But according to mythology, he was pursued by the goddess Hera. How do we reconcile this?

First, it’s worth noting that Heracles was also descended from Perseus and Alcaeus, which is why he was initially called Alcaeus or Alcides, after that ancestor. Mythological accounts differ by era, region, and author.

The version you refer to is explained as follows: Hera, to punish Zeus’s infidelity, sent two snakes to kill the infant Heracles. I’m fond of the astronomical detail from Theocritus of Syracuse, who wrote that “on the night the Bear [Ursa Major] tilted westward, two snakes with sparkling eyes, dark venom, and terrible fangs charged at Heracles.” Yet the baby strangled them with ease and, when Amphitryon entered the room in a panic, Heracles joyfully tossed the dead serpents at his foster father’s feet.

Another “earthly” version from Pherecydes of Athens claims it was Amphitryon himself who placed the snakes in the cradle to see which child was his own. When the people of Argos learned what had happened, they gave the boy the name “Heracles” – meaning he earned glory (kleos) because of Hera.

Another version: after Hera drove him mad, causing him to kill his own family, Heracles sought purification at the Oracle of Delphi. There, the Pythia gave him the name Heracles – “he who glorifies Hera” – as a form of spiritual redemption.

If we set aside Hera, there are other theories. Diodorus Siculus says the Heracles of Zeus and Alcmene – “the third and final one, who lived just before the Trojan War” – inherited the name from two earlier figures: the Cretan Idaean Heracles and an Egyptian Heracles. Because he lived a similar life to theirs, it was believed that “through all the ages, there was only one Heracles.” This is part of what we call the “ethnological prism” of Heracles.

Lastly, the philosopher Porphyry wrote in On Statues that Heracles was a name for the Sun, from klasthai pros ton aera – “to move toward the air,” symbolizing the sun’s journey from east to west, which purifies the Earth of evil. Thus, the twelve labors were linked mythologically to the zodiac cycle.

And regarding Hera’s jealousy: ironically, it was her milk that made Heracles immortal and created the Milky Way. This strange twist, as Diodorus puts it, shows how his birth mother abandoned him out of fear, while the source of his fear – his stepmother – unwittingly gave him divine nourishment.

4. I’ve volunteered for over nine years supporting people with disabilities. Could you share a bit about your artwork and your collaboration with the Lighthouse for the Blind?

Allow me once again to express my sincere admiration for your work. That collaboration was a unique and truly profound experience for me. It’s a real challenge for a visual artist to create for those with visual impairments, as sight is a primary mode of receiving information.

I had to carefully select the appropriate artistic pieces to fulfill this goal. We raised the bar for knowledge through Art and ancient literature because inclusion is a social imperative without boundaries. The first piece adapted into tactile format through the pioneering PIAF method was a portrait of Heracles.

5. Through your artistic perspective, can we find the path of Virtue that Heracles followed?

Regarding my art, I can confidently say that it is an effort to highlight our sacred and ancient heritage through each work – the result not only of long-term research but also of selfless love for our heroic and genealogical lineage.

From our modern elders to the ancients, our legacy is unified, and I believe we must respect it and build our future upon its timeless teachings. That said, distancing myself from narrow ideologies or opportunism, I believe it is up to each person to interpret visual stimuli in ways that serve both personal and collective good.

Greed, excess, and superficial modern lifestyles have caused spiritual atrophy in humanity – what Periander once called a “burdensome inheritance.” As Thucydides said, “Without courage, no art holds power over danger.” Food for thought…

6. On your social media, I noticed some of your works have been animated through AI. Can you tell me more about that?

Yes, depending on the context, I was initially hesitant – even skeptical – about artificial intelligence. But I eventually gave in to curiosity and experimented a bit. I must admit, I was impressed with the results.

However, as an artist rooted in classical and Hellenistic styles, I’ll approach this realm with great caution. We “old-school” researchers and artists still say nothing compares to the “smell of paper.” I’m in favor of progress, of course – but with respect for our roots and ethical framework.

7. While writing this interview, I thought schools could organize activities to help students learn about Heracles and draw life lessons from him. What do you think of this idea?

It’s an excellent idea – the real question is whether the authorities are willing to implement it with maturity and vision, as the greatest hero deserves. If we continue to treat Greek mythology – and Heracles in particular – merely as bedtime stories, there’s little hope for serious progress.

Heracles is an epic saga that’s been burning bright for 3,000 years. Interpreting his myth requires a multidimensional approach, and to incorporate it into education effectively demands thoughtful planning.

It should begin with simple storytelling at the early stages, then gradually delve into primary sources and the myth’s historical evolution – from Antiquity, the Middle Ages, the Renaissance, the Enlightenment, to the 19th-century comparative theories and 20th-century psychoanalytical and structuralist interpretations.

Higher education institutions should also take this more seriously. As far as I know, that’s not yet happening. For any such attempt to bear fruit, wisdom and care are essential.

8. Before we conclude this wonderful discussion, is there a final message you’d like to share with Eviasmile readers?

This truly was a beautiful discussion. I’d like to share a myth related to your island. Beyond Heracles’ connection to the healing springs of Aidipsos, tradition tells us that after he conquered Oechalia and took Iole, the daughter of the city’s king, they went to Euboea – to Cape Cenaeum – where he built an altar to Cenaean Zeus.

To offer a sacrifice, he sent a herald, Lichas, to nearby Trachis to bring him his ceremonial robe. However, Lichas revealed the whole affair to Heracles’ wife, Deianira, who, overcome with jealousy, gave him the tunic soaked with Nessus’ blood.

Heracles wore it to perform the sacrifice, but the poison seeped into his flesh, causing it to rot. In pain and rage, he hurled Lichas into the Euboean Sea. From the fragments of Lichas’ body, the Lichadonisia islands were said to be formed.

The Italian sculptor Antonio Canova immortalized this scene with a technique equal to Hellenistic sculpture over 200 years ago. Today, one can admire this neoclassical masterpiece at the National Gallery of Modern Art in Rome.

On a related note, I’m also intrigued by the Lelantine War of your island, as recorded by Thucydides – one of the defining events of early Greek history.

In conclusion, I’m truly pleased that Eviasmile has shown such genuine interest in Heracles and the glories of our ancestors through this wonderful interview. Euboea’s rich legacy must be preserved and promoted through coordinated effort.

This interview is not merely a conversation about Heracles – it is a journey into the essence of Virtue, Courage, Sacrifice, and Faith. Our guest, with grace, depth, and a deep sense of cultural duty, reminds us that the past is not dust on library shelves, but a guide toward a more meaningful future.

Eviasmile is honored to host voices that respect tradition, elevate our cultural identity, and inspire new generations to walk – like Heracles – the difficult but redemptive path of Virtue. Because ultimately, every heroic deed begins with one question: “What kind of person do you want to become?”