Fighting the good fight, whether near or far
I am not Black. Therefore, I do not claim that I will ever be able to understand what it is like to bear the weight of 400 years of oppression based on the colour of my skin. Oppression based on a deeply-rooted system that is rotten to the core and continues to function unabated today. A system that kicks in the moment a child is born. A system that automatically gives white people a headstart in life and leaves Black people trailing behind. A system that allows only those with enough money to afford a university education, apart from a “fortunate few” who win scholarships. A system that prevents Black people from being chosen for high-paying positions of power in the workforce.
I am not a mother. Therefore, I do not claim that I will ever know what it is like to have my son or daughter snatched from the protection of my loving embrace with a round of bullets, a knee to the neck, an unlawful prosecution that led to their death in jail. I have no idea what it is like to have to look into the innocent eyes of my child and give them the “police talk”, when they’re old enough to understand. I do not know what it is like to sit at home or in my workplace and wonder if my child will make it home safe tonight. I do not know what it feels like to be in my home and be on edge every day, worried that the police might break down my door at any moment, armed to the teeth and ready to fire at me and my family. Without warning, without reason, without consequences.
I was born in the so-called Lucky Country, in Australia. I went to school with kids whose families, like mine, had immigrated to Australia from every part of the world. Italy, Greece, Samoa, Tonga, South Africa, Serbia, Bosnia, China, Lebanon, Egypt and so many others. They simply wanted to give their children a better chance at life. I shared a classroom with children of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander descent. I was raised to accept and love all peoples and ethnicities. We lived in each other’s homes. We shared our ethnic cuisines. We taught each other swear words in our languages. We supported one another.
In 1982, at the age of 11, I was introduced to the world of rap. My uncle put a pair of headphones on me and said: “Listen to this”. Flowing from his stereo system was “The Message”, by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five. I was mesmerized. I sat and listened to the song over and over and over that day, until I learned the lyrics. I may have been a young Greek-Australian girl who loved to read but I had no knowledge of the reality of life in the South Bronx. Yet, I understood the lyrics. I was completely blown away. From that day on, it was a love affair with the music, the rich culture of Black America. I tuned into alternative radio stations, staying up late to catch the music that the mainstream stations wouldn’t play. Hip hop became a global language that allowed those without a voice to express themselves, their problems, in their tongue.
A few years later, in university, I studied the US civil rights movement and race issues as part of my sociology major at journalism school. I consumed thick hardbacks, sitting in the library for hours, finding myself incensed at the treatment of Black Americans at the hand of whites. I found inspiration, however, in the peace-loving speeches of MLK, the searing words of Malcolm X, the courage of Rosa Parks. Fifteen thousand kilometres away from the States, I continued to follow the state of play in US race relations through Spike Lee’s films. I covered anti-racism protests for my university newspaper. When I took my first job as a journalist, at a feisty regional weekly where my editor gave me full rein to gain my reporting chops, I continued to cover race issues .
Then in 1996, I left multi-ethnic Australia and found my family’s roots in Greece. It was somewhat of a culture shock to find myself in a homogenous society. Here, I’m not a minority. I’m the majority. I missed my friends, the diversity, their traditions. Living in Greece, however, gave me clarity on what it is like to be on the other side. It’s been an uphill battle trying to educate some of my fellow Greeks though it’s heartening to see younger generations are much more accepting of other cultures, having grown up with children of immigrants.
It pains me deeply that more than 50 years have passed since MLK Jr delivered “I Have a Dream”, since the Civil Rights and Voting Rights Acts, which I had read about, were passed. I cannot imagine how much it pains Black Americans. I cannot claim to understand your pain and fear and anger. I deeply admire your sense of pride and strength of character. All I can say is that I am here for you and will continue to stand by you and for you. I will continue to support Black writers. Your voices — on all matters — are necessary. I will continue to educate myself and the people around me. I will continue to encourage others to fight the good fight. This cannot end until real change is brought about.
#blacklivesmatter #blackvoicesmatter #blackstoriesmatter
