The Old Bells of Asklipio: A Confession from a Stubborn Son of Rhodes

My name is Nikos, and I was born in Asklipio, a small inland village tucked in the southern folds of Rhodes. Most tourists come here for Lindos or the medieval Old Town, but Asklipio? It’s off the main track. Quiet. Humble. But here, we still ring the church bells by hand, and the olives taste like dust and sun and thunderclouds. That’s where I come from.

I wasn’t always proud of it. In fact, I used to hate it.

My father was the church bell ringer. Not a priest—just a villager like the rest, but when the bells tolled, they tolled through his calloused hands. He treated that duty like sacred work. I never understood why. To me, growing up in the '80s and '90s, this village felt like a trap. One road in, one road out. Same stories, same faces. And everyone knew everyone’s business. That’s the thing with Rhodes villages—you can’t sneeze without it turning into a story at the kafeneio.

When I was 18, I fled. Left the old house with the fig tree and went to Athens to study marine engineering. My dream was to work on ships, escape the island, go where no one knew I once played the role of Joseph in the church’s nativity play and forgot my lines. I didn’t come back for ten years.

And when I did return, it was not by choice.

My father had a stroke. My mother, always a quiet woman who never asked for anything, called me one morning and said, simply, “Niko, come.” I did. With resentment at first, and guilt, and the kind of anger only a son who thinks he knows better can hold in his gut.

Asklipio hadn’t changed much. Maybe a few more Airbnbs. Maybe a few more German hikers lost on the olive paths. But the same smells of oregano and goats, the same ladies in black sweeping their front steps, and yes—the same gossip. “O Niko o tsalapetinos—he came back after all!” I was the prodigal son with messy city habits and no prayer on my lips.

I took care of my father. That’s what you do here. Blood matters. Even if your tongue is full of bitter words, your hands obey the old code.

One evening, about six months in, something strange happened. It was a Thursday. I had just returned from the olive press—my uncle had roped me into helping—and the sky turned that bruised purple Rhodes gets in the fall. I heard the church bell ring. Once, twice. A mistake. My father was bedridden. I ran up the cobblestone path, convinced someone had broken in. But when I entered, it was empty. Silent.

The rope hung still.

And yet… the air was thick. Full. Charged, like before a storm.

I don’t know what I saw, or didn’t see. I just remember standing there, suddenly crying. Not from sadness. From something else—relief, maybe. Like something heavy inside me had cracked open.

I rang the bell.

For no reason. No service, no death, no celebration.

I rang it for me.

I started helping more after that. Slowly. I learned the rhythm of the village again. The oil season, the grape stomping, the saint’s feast days. The way people mourn here—with coffee and koulourakia and sudden laughter. The stories people tell at funerals. The secrets buried but not forgotten.

Rhodes is a strange island. It’s proud and scarred. You’ve got Crusader walls, Turkish fountains, Italian buildings, Greek hearts. Everyone’s left something behind here—Knights, Ottomans, Italians, tourists. But somehow, the Rhodians remained. With stubbornness. With faith. With the kind of irony only the truly wounded develop.

And so did I.

I found God not in the books or the psalms but in my father’s silence, in the scent of burnt incense, and in the stubborn ringing of those old bronze bells. I learned that faith isn’t a declaration. It’s a rhythm. A habit. Like sweeping the step every morning or saying kalimera even to the neighbor you secretly can’t stand.

These days, I’m 45. I never went back to the ships. I stayed. I run a small agritourism business now—we teach visitors to make goat cheese and pick capers and walk the old Roman paths near Asklipio. I ring the bells when needed. And sometimes, when not needed.

I still argue with God sometimes. I swear under my breath. I fail. But I no longer pretend I don’t believe. I believe, deeply, stubbornly, like my father did. And I’ve discovered that this kind of faith changes everything—it grounds you. Anchors you. Teaches you to forgive. To listen. To show up.

So if you ever pass through Asklipio, and hear the bell ring when nothing is happening—no liturgy, no festival—just know it might be me, saying thank you. Or asking for strength. Or just remembering where I came from.

Take-away thoughts, from one Rhodian to you:

• Don’t run forever from your roots. They might just save you.

• God sometimes speaks in silence—or in bells with no reason.

• Small villages hold big truths, hidden behind gossip and coffee cups.

• Coming back doesn’t mean failure. It can mean peace.

• And never underestimate the power of ringing something old and sacred, just because your heart says so.

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