Immigration
Swallowing my pride I listened to the vicious, inappropriate language being spoken. Hate had me dazed and confused. Although, whilst each jolt in the train line caused me to sway, welling eyes blurred my vision.
Numb in shock, I was desperate for retreat. As silence beckoned, I yearned to be relieved from this random act of abuse. Hang in there, Amy, it will be over soon. Consumed, teardrops began slipping down my cheeks. Why me?
This childish, immature, and coward of a person belittled me. Picking on the weak and innocent was probably her speciality. But, just because she had a problem with immigrants didn’t make it ok.
And then, as if an angel had whispered in my ear, I remembered that all Australians are immigrants or offspring of immigrants. The only exception: People of aboriginal descent. Therefore, who was this person judging me? I am proud of my grandparents who found a better life here.
No longer dazed, confused and numb, suddenly. I wiped away my tears and held my head high. Then, the sound I was waiting for boomed through the speaker on the train.
A robotic, computerised voice announced, ‘next stop, Oakleigh.’
So I stood and exited swiftly, as soon as the doors opened.
The unprovoked, verbal attack I had endured was over.
I could now breathe again.
I needed a holiday.
Onboard a plane, I set off to visit the villages my ancestors occupied, some sixty-five years prior.
From the moment I arrived at Athens airport, set foot on the tarmac and was confronted with the chaotic customs department inside the terminal. I came to terms with the facts: I was no longer in the sunburnt country I love (the only home I know) anymore. Greece was different.
The hot European summer had me feeling underwhelmed. An average nineteen-year-old girl, self-absorbed, introverted and shy, and although ethnic-looking, with dark, thick, long and frizzy hair, and unfortunate fine, dark facial hair on my lip and sides of my face, I didn’t feel like I belonged here. Nor could I form any connection. But, it was time to discover my roots.
Appreciation for all my creature comforts was now being realised as I took in, first-hand, the lower standard of living. However, the one word which I felt best described it — relaxed.
Rich landscapes of green and rocky slopes, chirping birds and soft music whispered throughout. Villas bordered every inch of the horizon and although I perceived it to be an ancient lifestyle with obvious drawbacks, the people seemed content, spreading a harmonious vibe to all.
My first stop was a small coastal town where I enjoyed a short, leisurely stroll to the water’s edge. Along the way, I greeted the locals with the few words I had in my Greek vocabulary. ‘Ka-le-men-a.’ Close enough. I giggled to myself as I mispronounced it. Then humming happily, I browsed the stalls that were selling souvenirs and essential items. In my aimless wandering, I discovered the most unforgettable ice creams.
In my opinion, the pebbled beach here was inferior to the glorious, soft, silica sand found at heavenly places like Whitehaven beach on Australia’s coast. Disappointed, I now missed the sensation of my feet sinking into icing sugared soft ground. It dawned on me that I’d overlooked the variations of sand, and had taken for granted what my homeland had to offer. A woven mat was required to lie on this surface and still, it was uncomfortable. Somehow though, the whoosh of the ocean’s waves relaxed me. There was something about being in a foreign country that was liberating. I was at peace.
When I tired of lounging before the water, I ventured to a nearby café for replenishment.
It looked like a shack from Jamaica with thick wooden pillars and woven straw walls. It was hardly the Grecian style building I was expecting. Reggae music jammed through the sound system and a smile spread across my face as I bopped to the beat.
A handsome and friendly young man served me coffee. He had tanned skin, dark short hair, brown eyes, and a killer smile.
I sipped on a frappe and enjoyed embracing the culture, flirting a little. Giddy with the possibility of a holiday romance.
Night came, and I enjoyed the local cuisine. Apart from the Greek yoghurt with honey. My taste buds were not ready for that combination of sweet and sour. Then retreating to my room, without a TV, I was up all night encapsulated in a story of crime and passion that I will never forget.
When the time had come to do what I came here for, it was a long drive across the country to reach the small, still poverty-stricken village of Parore in the north where my grandma was born.
There, I recalled the stories my grandma had told of her life.
She would say, ‘List-en, Amy, koukla,’ (an endearing term meaning, beautiful in Greek), imperfect English and heartfelt, with her hand on mine. We’d finish a Greek coffee together and customarily tip the cup and read our fortunes from the coffee residue. ‘I was born on the sixteenth of January, nineteen thirty-five. No doctors, at home. Not upstairs where we slept, in the stable with the animals.’
How could this be? Her birth was almost biblical. I just couldn’t fathom such things.
‘After mother and baby went upstairs and lay together for three days, then it was time for us to work the fields.’
And that was the meagre start of the life of Viktoria Stefanopoulos, AKA Vika, my grandma.
‘Even though we lived in Greece, our people felt as though we were Macedonian. We lived ‘under’ the Greeks rule. Close to the Greek borders, we spoke Macedonian at home and learned Greek at school.’
My grandma spoke only English to me, I knew she could speak Greek and I sometimes heard her speak Macedonian, but I never really understood anything that she said unless it was spoken in English.
In the very spot, where my grandma was born, I looked around and thought that it didn’t look like it had evolved much at all. Dusty ground, unmade roads, overgrown vegetation and a few broken-down barn type houses made up the landscape.
And I was mortified by the disfigured, inhuman looking residents that still lived here in this time warp of poverty, amongst animals and the barren land. It appeared more deserted than what I imagined it would have been long ago.
‘When I grew up, most houses were inhabited by up to four families. But I lived in a house with only two families.’
Hearing her voice in my head, narrating my own personal tour of where I now stood, I was humbled.
‘There was no money made or spent, my family produced everything we needed, working the land, growing, harvesting and manufacturing crops. Men cut firewood out in the bush, loaded it onto donkeys and returned for the women to unload it so they could go out again. Grapes were grown and picked to make wine and whiskey. Wheat and corn were grown, cut and bundled onto carriages.
Once brought home the wheat was put on a machine to be sorted and then it was dried. The corn was peeled, washed and stripped before both the wheat and corn were then turned into flour. Bread was made every week without a stove. Cheese, butter, and milk were made daily; there was no fridge. Where possible, things were prepared in bulk, a year’s supply.
Some paddocks were left to grow long grass that would be cut and dried, becoming hay to feed the animals. We had sheep, lamb, and pigs. The pigs were fed pumpkins we grew, and one a year was killed and cut into pieces then preserved in tins with salt. Its lard was used for soap. The wool from sheep was spun and used to make clothes and blankets, jumpers, socks, aprons — everything. The women would sew and knit all night. If ever there were any money, it was spent on a tiny amount of oil or sugar.’
I couldn’t fathom being so self-sufficient and the need to work like a machine because there were no machines.
I am Australian. Thank God for immigration.
Looking up to the distant hills, I stood frozen in time. Like a movie playing in my head, I had a vision. Just as I’d been told, I imagined soldiers marching down the hill all in line, uniformed up and weapon ready to invade and take.
‘I was eleven when guerrillas invaded our village. We all hid while many soldiers looked for young boys. My brother got taken. Months after we had immigrated, a letter arrived. It revealed that my brother was killed in battle. He was twenty-two.’
Death is foreign to me. I haven’t lost a loved one. The world is my oyster. And with the freedom and opportunity to love and experience all life has to offer, there is no reason why I will not prosper.
When my time in Parore was up, I took one last look around and drove off in a dust cloud back to Athens airport.
On the flight, I thought about the process my ancestors went through to relocate, immigrate all those decades ago. Dreading the nineteen-hour flight I had ahead of me, I considered the month-long boat journey endured by my ancestors.
‘When we arrived in Australia, I thought I was in paradise. What excited me most were the biscuits, oranges, and lemonade. I discovered these wonderful treats, and thought to myself, ‘this is the life.’ I even joked with my sister as we counted each item, worried that they would run out, but they never did. My family bought tins and crates of my new favourite foods and took them for others to enjoy everywhere we went.’
Biscuits are my favourite food. I can devour a whole pack with my best friend Susan, and the coffee we dunk them in is just for that.
My grandma lived a humble life and worked hard. I hadn’t experienced anything close to the hardships she had been through and probably never would.
My passion is to write. I write lyrics to songs, my thoughts and my fantasies as often as I can in the privacy of my beautiful, upstairs bedroom.
My hands are soft and perfect unlike the worn, disfigured, arthritis-ridden hands with only one and a half thumbs and seven fingers my grandma now has. My bed has a white, tulle canopy, and a pastel pink, floral bedspread. My room’s window overlooks the gorgeous surrounds of my parent’s lush, green property, bordered by a channel of water, and blossom-covered fruit trees.
‘I love hard work; to ‘work like a man’. Working the land alongside your Grandfather was my greatest achievement. There were no tractors or machinery, only horses, and people. I ploughed, sprayed, slashed, and cultivated better than any worker. I even managed to learn to speak, read, and write English with only the use of a dictionary. This was necessary for me to pay, (by cheque), the fifty pickers we employed.’
She is an achiever.
I have no idea what kind of work I want to do and I’m not forced to worry about a decision anytime soon. I process numbers in an accountant’s office now but who knows what my future holds. I am so lucky. The time I have with my Grandma will be treasured. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow.
My first trip overseas will never be forgotten. Etched into my brain, I will always remember the importance of appreciation. Next time I am confronted with racial abuse, I know what to do because as a third generation ethnic, I don’t suffer. With fixed thoughts on those who I know who have succeeded, I strengthen my focus on accomplishment. I will myself to succeed. To have something to show for my existence and for the sacrifices my grandmother and many others made, to obtain the smallest taste of the lifestyle we take for granted today.
I stand now with pride-filled eyes, I am tall in spirit and the remarks of racism are muted, I hear only what is of importance.
