‘The opposite of faith is not doubt but certainty.’

D I V E   I N

​

Greek Goddesses (and the patriarchy)

 

​

 

 

Goddesses date back to Neolithic times but perhaps we’re most interested in them from the ancient Egyptian period onwards, thanks to the colourful stories and legends that followed. We know of powerful female icons in Hindu worship and Chinese legend, ancient Egyptian lore and Roman tales, but there is something about Greek goddesses in particular that seems to translate smoothly into our modern world, regardless of custom or country.  The Bronze Age deities have seamlessly slipped into popular culture: we mention Aphrodite, goddess of love, when we’re talking about beauty or romance, and inadvertently reference the goddess of victory, Nike, on a regular basis.

 

     *                                                  *                                                *

 

Just as with every Greek god, every Greek goddess had a different power. Athena was the Olympian blessed with wisdom and strategy; Gaia, the ‘mother’ of Mother Earth fame; Styx, a Titan and ruler of the river; Hecate, the goddess of magic.

 

And yet, despite their might, Greek goddesses were still subjected to endless sexism.

 

Today, many anthropologists believe that the first ever god was feminine (relating to beliefs that creation was achieved through self-fertilisation, sans males). However, back in ancient Greece, the patriarchy ruled all. The mythological stories that came to be were based on the state of affairs at that time, and so Greek goddesses were forced to live in a god’s world.

 

The easiest place to see this is in the hierarchy. Nobody was more powerful than Zeus. His wife (and sister) Hera, one of the twelve Olympians, was the goddess of marriage, childbirth, and women in general. She was immortal and had the ability to bless and curse marriages, but most of the stories told undercut her power, frequently portraying her as being antagonistic and jealous. Tales depict her being faithful to Zeus, even as he chased and harassed other females, and choosing to punish the women who bore his children.

 

Goddesses were still expected to carry children, and often what happened to those children was out of their control. For example, Rhea’s husband Kronos ate five of his children, having heard that they were destined to overthrow him someday. Rhea managed to keep their final child (Zeus) safe by tricking Kronos and keeping the future misogynist hidden in the mountains.

 

There are countless tales of goddesses being objectified (most notably in the Iliad: in one tale, Trojan prince Paris awarded Aphrodite a golden apple in exchange for Helen) and gods sexually harassing goddesses until they got their way. Zeus was notorious for this, fathering around 100 children and regularly changing himself into different animals in order to catch women.

 

One of his many children was Persephone. The goddess of spring and vegetation was kidnapped by Hades and taken to the underworld (a ploy approved of by her father), where she was held hostage as Hades’ wife. Her mother Demeter, goddess of agriculture and harvest, frantically searched for her missing daughter for four months, the depths of her despair leading to an arid season in which nothing grew and nothing was harvested (what we know as winter). In the underworld, after Zeus begrudgingly ordered Hades to release Persephone (pressured by the starving people), Hades tricked Persephone by offering her a pomegranate. She ate the seeds, not knowing that by tasting the food of the underworld, she was forever obliged to spend four months of every year down there as Queen of the Underworld (or ‘dreaded Persephone’, or ‘Queen of the Dead’). A grand title, maybe, but not one she wanted.

 

Females were demonised or discriminated against all the way from Mount Olympus down through the various echelons of power, right to the bottom. The monsters of Greek mythology, from Medusa with her cold death stare to Scylla with her raging limbs, were always depicted as female. Mania, the spirit of insanity, frenzy, and the dead, was also female. And, perhaps unsurprisingly, beautiful Aphrodite was depicted as forever in favour among men and often hateful towards other women.

     

     *                                                  *                                                *

 

In 2016 novel Circe, Madeleine Miller gives the title character a voice. The book is an adaptation of various Greek myths (including the Odyssey), told completely from Circe’s perspective. Circe, a witch, is deemed by those around her as unattractive and powerless. She falls in love with mortal man Glaucos and uses a flower potion to turn him into a god, but he ends up falling for beautiful nymph Scylla. In a moment of jealousy, Circe poisons Scylla, turning her into a sea monster, and consequently gets banished to a remote island. It’s while she’s in exile that she hones her witchcraft, making magical potions using nearby flora and herbs. She becomes self-sufficient, simultaneously raising her son and turning lecherous sailors that wash up on her shores into pigs until they respect her. 

 

Unlike in ancient tales which depict Circe as a petty, useless witch, this version paints her as a full, complex character; disgusted by the misogyny and hierarchy on Mount Olympus; empathetic towards her uncle who was punished for helping mortals; extremely remorseful for what she did to Scylla; kind towards Penelope (the wife of Odysseus, Circe’s former suitor and the father of Circe’s son), letting her stay at her home and teaching her how to protect herself; saving her son from Athena’s wrath; and finally, turning herself into a mortal so she can travel the world. Also in contrast with the traditional tales is the deep shame Circe’s son, Telemachus, feels after killing female slaves (as ordered to do so by his father Odysseus).

 

     *                                                  *                                                *

 

I wonder if there are goddesses among us. Real women, made of skin and bones and strength, who could move mountains without mysticism or mythology coursing through their veins. The ones in real life, on documentaries, on the news, in stories from friends and strangers. Women hunched over small tables folding dumpling after dumpling until their thumbs and forefingers have no feeling left. Running businesses, their acumen and savvy the steering wheel for huge companies and start-ups alike. Raising children with their bodies, hearts, and minds. Fighting for their voices to be heard. Sometimes doing all of these things seemingly at the same time. Are these women, so extraordinary in the face of normalised inequality, goddesses too?