AMIDST THE CROWD AT THE CYPRUS RALLY

 

“Welcome, let me find you a seat over with the dignitaries,” one of the organisers of the Cyprus Rally greeted me as I arrived at Federation Square.

“No need,” I responded. “To paraphrase Groucho, I wouldn’t dream of joining any dignitaries that would accept me as one of them. I’m going to mingle with the crowd, instead.”

Soon after, Victorian Minister Steve Dimopoulos arrived. “Let me see if I can find you a seat, Steve,” I offered.

“No need,” he responded. “I prefer to mingle with the crowd.”

I stood next to longtime friend and educator, Pontian community stalwart Kostas Pataridis, who along with Yiota Stavridou is responsible for putting together a remarkable exhibition showcasing the Hellenic history of Cyprus at the Cyprus Community. Kostas was extremely tired but he made the effort to attend because, as a descendant of Genocide victims, he sees value in remembering and in expressing solidarity with the oppressed everywhere.

“I took the kids to their soccer match this morning and I came straight here. Once this is done, I’ll go to the launch of your book: “The Librarian of Cappadocia.”

“I’ve postponed the launch,” I informed him, touched. “When I realised that the dates conflicted, it was a no brainer that Cyprus takes priority.” What I didn’t tell him was that it was also my beloved niece’s first birthday and that I had snuck out of her birthday party to a chorus of raised eyebrows by my kinfolk.

“Leave him,” my sister said. “Cyprus is important.”

As we listened to the speakers, some elderly gentlemen sidled up to me. “Why do they torture the crowd with speech after speech, all of them saying the same thing. The crowd is getting tired and restless. Have an introduction, a keynote address and then move to the concert. Or are we merely trying to feed egos here.”

Given that I was one of the speakers, I refrained from comment. “Nonsense,” one of his companions interrupted him. “This is important. Here are politicians from both major parties, State and Federal and all of them are affirming that the invasion and occupation of Cyprus is illegal. This sends an important message to the world. Australia is with us.”

“I’m not saying Australia isn’t,” another of their friends cut in. “But notice that two of the speakers are former leaders of their Federal and State parties and thus rivals of the current leaders. What wisdom lies in inviting those who by their very existence threaten the leadership of the current holders of power?”

This was an astute observation, and I could not help but offer my own opinion: “In my view, these speakers are well respected members of parliament and good friends of our community, not only in word, but in deed. They are not guests. They are part of our community and have every right to be here.’’

“How much are they paying you?” the old man snorted sarcastically.

Towards the rear of the crowd, a bearded man draped in the Greek flag, accosted another draped in the Cypriot flag: “An interesting white cloak you are wearing. But what is that bird poop that has fallen on it?” I took this as an offensive reference to the map of Cyprus and expressed my outrage. “Relax,” both men laughed. “We are friends and always have arguments as to whether the Cyprus Issue would be better solved via both parts uniting with their mother countries, or by becoming truly independent. It’s just a joke, albeit in poor taste.”

Nearby, a left-leaning community activist stood shaking his head. “This is not right,” he exclaimed angrily. “All these speakers are acting as if the coup did not happen. As if the Junta did not exist and as if Greece and the Junta’s Cypriot supporters bear no responsibility for the Invasion. And by the way, we have heard a good deal about the war in Ukraine by the speakers, but nothing at all about Palestine. What is going on? Is this a form of racism?”

“Take a look around you,” I suggested. “I see in this crowd, Greek flags, Cypriot flags, Ukrainian flags, Assyrian flags and a gorgeous flag bearing the Mandylion of Christ, which paradoxically enough is also used by the Russian army. Yet nowhere do I see any Palestinian flags. Moreover, given Hezbollah, Hamas’ ally’s recent threats towards Cyprus, do you think that there is sufficient context to emphasize other issues, at the expense of the 50^th anniversary of the invasion of Cyprus?”

“Hmph,” he grunted. “Fascist.”

As I do at every Cyprus rally, I went to greet the black clad ladies who carry photographs of their loved ones. They have born the anguish of not knowing where their brothers, fathers and husbands have been for decades. Some of these, as in the case of a lady who attends my parish church, have also had to experience the grief that comes with learning that their loved one, taken prisoner by the invaders, was murdered, in violation of International Law and denied a decent burial for decades. She described in detail how her brother’s remains were eventually retrieved, identified and delivered to her family for burial. When I asked whether the internment of her brother’s remains allowed her to achieve a sense of finality, since I was unaware of the Greek term for ‘closure,’ she shook her head sadly and tears rolled down her creased cheeks. “I’ve been coming to these rallies ever since 1974. And in all that time, I still cannot understand why people have to be so mean to each other.”

I have been attending the Cyprus Rally ever since I was an infant. I remember my grieving parishioner as a young mother, her grief infused with vitality and righteous indignation. Now I see her, old and grey, with a walking stick, her grief overlain with bitterness, her sorrow with bewilderment. I tell her that it is for her and her friends that I am drawn to the rally every year and she sighs and gives me a hug. “You know those verses in the Greek national anthem: «Από τα κόκκαλα βγαλμένη, των ελλήνων τα ιερά»? I’m convinced that these words refer to my brother. My brother died so we can be free. But what I still can’t understand after all this time, is why.”

A young, newly arrived from Greece attendee attempts to yell pejoratives aimed at the perpetrator and politicians in Greece and is restrained by some of the older members of the crowd. “There is no place for that sort of behaviour here,” they reprimand him sternly. “Come on!” he exclaims indignantly. “You guys are so wooden and lifeless. Droning on and on and on. Where is the fire, where is the passion? Don’t you people feel anything?” I pointed him in the direction of my elderly co-parishioner, still weeping as she clutched the photograph of her brother.

When I was called upon to speak, I did so in Greek, even though I had been asked to speak in English. This is because I felt that all that could be said in English, would most ably be said by the politicians and other community leaders chosen to do so. My message, however, was not directed towards the mainstream but rather to those who I have known all my life, seeing them albeit once a year, who have grown grey defying wintry Melbourne, who have seen their hopes and aspirations diminish, but who nonetheless refuse to resile from their duty or abandon their faith. I chose to address them in the form of a poem, because it is the poets, whether Solomos, Palamas, Seferis, Elytis, Ritsos or so many others who traditionally spoke directly to the hearts of the people, in a discourse that defies rhetoric, eschews stereotypes and cliches but instead forms a narrative that has sustained us both in times of elation as well as loss and despondency. I said:

“To the murderers, to the rapists,

to the oppressors, to the conquerors,

to those who drown all hope,

who violate every moral law

whose hands are soaked in the blood

of the baptistery of violence,

and  have the temerity to call this peace.

To those,

Who refuse to let wounds heal,

but instead let them fester,

Who do not know how to let hearts meld,

but fence them off and enclose them with barbed wire,

 with guns and with words.

Who do not know how to unite, but only how to divide.

To those

Who shamelessly engrave their sins on Pentadactylus for all the world to see

Who tremble at reconciliation, who fear forgiveness,

who are hostile to love, and identify  with death.

To them, we answer with the words of the poet:

These trees don't take comfort in less sky

 these rocks don't take comfort under foreigners' footsteps

these faces take comfort only in the sun,

these hearts take comfort only in righteousness

And we here also take no comfort in anything less than the freedom of Cyprus.

And here before everyone and under the protection of Panayia, we swear by the sacred ideals of humanity that as long as we exist, however few  we may become, that we will never stop fighting for justice, freedom, democracy and the liberation of Cyprus.”

 

“Stirring words,” a spectator opined as I came off the stage. “You seemed very angry.” The truth is I was. Whereas in my youth I viewed the issue variously as one of imperialism, or of competing nationalisms and violation of International Law, ever since I became a father, I view it as one of betrayal. We all take great care in endeavouring to infuse in our children values of tolerance, fairness, decency, empathy, open-mindedness and kindness. We lead them to believe that these character traits are prized, that they constitute a code to live by. And then we unleash them upon a world where injustice prevails if it is our interest for it to do so, where we all make pious noises about upholding the right while we do the opposite, or even worse, hold our tongues in the face of iniquity. How can I convince my children and my niece of the logic of our system of beliefs, when after fifty years, the World we have brought them into tolerates an illegal regime that has entrenched itself by means of violence and continues to enforce a system of apartheid?

 

Sharing these reflections with an Assyrian gentleman in the crowd, he shook his head slowly. “We have not had a country for 2,400 years,” he whispered sadly. “But we are still here. Through all the pain, the constant persecution, the genocides, the hypocrisy of the world powers and the indifference of others – all of it. We are still here. And sometimes, that is more than enough.”

 

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 27 July 2024