For Baba

Athens, Santorini, Lidoriki, Mykonos, Corfu. To paraphrase the Sesame Street song, one of these places is not like the others, one of these places just doesn’t belong.

Of course it’s Lidoriki, not exactly known for being a Greek epicentre or a coveted tourist destination. It’s a spit of a village in the central part of Greece known as Sterea Ellada. Mountainous and rocky, the rugged terrain is more handsome than beautiful and the climate is unforgiving: dry and sweltering in summer, snow blanketing the district in winter.

The village is so far off the beaten track that even the local travel guide describes it as ‘isolated and remote’. The evening pastime is a stroll to the platia, the village square which is edged with a handful of kafenia and tavernas. A towering plane tree rises from the centre, shading the cafe tables and chairs where the villagers congregate for a convivial pre-dinner aperitif and gossip.

Lidoriki is my father’s birthplace and my ancestral home. Son of a blacksmith who made pots, pans and farming tools over a forge, my father’s heart never left the village, even after he migrated to Australia in the 1950s. Baba used to say that the village shaped him, instilling the traditional Greek values of duty, loyalty and respect. These are values I have inherited from him; philotimo the Greeks call it, the love of honour that underscores the Greek way of life and the duty to do what’s right.

I am very much like my father – stubborn, proud, judgemental. I have even inherited his frugalness. ‘Fasouli, fasouli, yemisi to sakouli’, my father used to say, little bean by little bean, the sack will surely fill. Why pay full price for tinned tuna or roma tomatoes when you know they will eventually be on special at the supermarket if you wait long enough.

My father left Lidoriki to start a new life, first in Athens and then Australia. Australia held the promise of prosperity instead of the hardship he left behind in a Greece ravaged by World War II and the subsequent civil war. Aftstralia was the land of milk and honey, not just for him but for his unborn children.

I used to see the story of my father’s migration in stark black and white. It was a version in which my life script was written when Baba and Mama boarded the boat that brought them to Melbourne. Mine was a future predestined to include university, a career and a Greek husband. These were set against the 1950s traditions and customs my father brought with him straight from Lidoriki – a culture frozen in time that never thawed as the years passed.

When I didn’t meet Baba’s expectations, it sparked bitter conflict and recriminations of disappointment. His view of the world was narrow and the rules were strict. When I began to challenge his authority as a young adult to carve out my own identity, our relationship began to fracture, the schism between us ever widening until we became estranged. Over time, our estrangement yielded to an uncomfortable truce and co-existence, but we were still separated by an emotional gulf, the hurt and anger fusing to form an impenetrable barrier between us.

It took some 20 years for me to see the other side of Baba’s migration story and understand why he had such tough rules and uncompromising expectations of me. In coming to Australia, Baba gave up his homeland, family, language and culture so I could have a head start in life. He traded his white-collar job in Greece for manual labour in factories, service stations and milk bars. Baba took up the panel beating trade in his 30s, learning how to hammer dented car bodies and twist them back into shape. He sometimes had two jobs at once and during school holidays, he repaired cars at home, using the garage as a workshop so he could continue working while looking after my brother and me.

In coming to Australia, Charalambos Katsonis made immeasurable sacrifices, always putting his children first. Baba died some years ago and I never thanked him for the sacrifices he made that have allowed me to forge a successful career and lead a comfortable life far removed from rural Lidoriki. Until now with this letter for him.

Efxaristo poli, Baba.

Me agapi

With love,

Maria