GERSHOM AND THE COMPASSION OF THE PATRIARCH

 

When I was ushered into the room, I was transfixed by his gaze immediately. Two pairs of large, pitch black eyes, poring into the innermost recesses of my being. At least that is what I was told later. For, whenever faced with a situation that could prove daunting, I automatically resort to pilot mode, placing myself mentally at some distance from that particular circumstance, for preference, within the reign of Byzantine Emperor Nicephoros Phocas, recalling and listing the dates of his deeds. Yet this was no ordinary situation. No amount of Phocas could assist me in my own meeting of the Fokkers, for here I was about to meet my prospective father-in-law, for the first time. As he apprised me silently, I braced myself for the inevitable questions, formulating answers in anticipation: “What work do you do?” (Anything that redounds to the glory of the August Roman Emperor Nicephoros Phocas). “How would you support a wife?” (I suppose with a little pressure under the arm while crossing a busy street). The silence lay so thick and cloying upon the room that it could have been mistaken for baklava syrup. “Who invented baklava, the Greeks or the Assyrians?” (I refuse to answer on the grounds that I may incriminate myself).

When he did speak, the first words that came out of his mouth, delivered in precise, formal English, were these: “Did you know, I have actually met your Patriarch?” He signed, gestured for me to sit net to him and began to tell me the story of how he was forced to leave his homeland. Much of it I already knew from his daughter, but I discerned in his voice, the same timbre of pain that I had already to come to identify in the voices of my own people, who recalled their dislocation and final uprooting, their words perennially hovering above them unanchored, ceaselessly searching and finding no respite.

He recounted how he and his family abandoned their home “like thieves in the night,” leaving behind all their possessions and precious memories, lamenting especially the loss of photographic albums that serve as aides-mémoire. He kept me spellbound too as he regaled me with tales of hiding up in the barren Kurdish mountains, being led by Kurdish guides who would stop ever so often and threaten to abandon them there unless they handed over more of their money and it was only because of my father in law’s knowledge of the Kurdish language that he was able to shame them into upholding their end of the bargain. I was enthralled as described the desperate trek through wetlands covered in reeds, of endless walking in absolute silence, knowing that should they be apprehended, they would be shot on sight. On the crossing of the border into Turkey, of being provided with filthy blankets and foul and rancid food and water he did not dwell, but his voice quivered as it conveyed his fear and adject despondency, being completely unaware of the whereabouts of two of his sons who had made the escape prior to his own and his concerns about the future.

“You cannot imagine what it is to be an indigenous person, being treated as a second class citizen by the conquerors of your homeland,” my father in law grasped my arm. “The simmering resentment that you belong to your land and that it belongs to you but still you are considered illegitimate. That is how we Assyrians felt in Iraq. And when we got to Constantinople and saw everywhere the marks left on the city by your people, this feeling of resentment became worse even as we felt relief. Why relief, you ask? Simply because in the traces your people left behind, we realised that we are not alone, that others have suffered just as we have, that there is someone out there who understands us.”

My father in law’s family found lodgings in Therapeia, once an important centre of the Greek population of the City, now largely bereft of its Greek inhabitants. He described how they planned their movements carefully, rarely going out except to purchase necessities for if they were caught by the police they would be beaten, robbed, taken to the Iraqi border and sent over the other side where only death awaited those who left without permission during the time of Saddam. Once in a while, with whatever meagre savings were left to them, they would pay people-smugglers to attempt the crossing over into Greece and freedom. Each time, they would be apprehended and thrown back across the border.

Destitute and desperate, their only solace was attending a Greek church they managed to find after seeing the flames of some candles through a window in a room below street level in their neighbourhood. “This church was almost completely empty, except for two old ladies wearing black. I would go there, pray for my sons, pray for my family, pray that we would soon get out of that place.”

On one day, to his surprise, the normally empty church was filled with people. “I realised that they were local Greeks because they would speak Greek inside the church but as soon as they would emerge into the street, they would switch to Turkish. A bishop was conducting the service. Even though the church was full of people, I could see that he was looking at me and my family intently. When the service concluded and we lined up to obtain a blessing, he gestured towards us to come up to him. “Who are you?” I asked him in English and he answered, “I am the Patriarch.” He asked me where I was from and upon learning that I was an Assyrian refugee from Iraq, he asked me where I was living and if there was anything he could do for me. Most importantly (and here my father in law’s eyes began to grow glassy and he paused to wipe the tears from his eyes), he asked  me how I was feeling. I will never forget this moment. How I was feeling… What could I tell him? That I didn’t know where my boys were, that I had no idea what would happen to us, that our money had dwindled away to nothing and that I did not know how long we could afford to eat. I told him: “I feel like Gershom. I am a stranger in a strange land. I feel like a refugee who has lost everything,” and the Patriarch nodded in understanding and embraced me. He told me to continue to attend the church to come to him if I needed any help.” “I’ll be praying for you,” he told me, as we parted.”

My father in law looked into my eyes and grasped my hand. He wanted me to understand that the Ecumenical Patriarch’s words and the manner in which he showed he cared were like balsam to his soul, infusing him with the courage and confidence to hope and to fight, at a time when he was teetering on the brink of giving up. When I told him that I too had met the Patriarch and had been the recipient of his kindness, his face lit up and he embraced me excitedly. That was when I knew I was in.

 To his dying day, my father in law would speak of the Ecumenical Patriarch in loving terms, marvelling at his humility and his humanity and expressing his most ardent hope that he would play a decisive role in the reunification of all the churches.

The last conversation I had with my father in law took place in his bedroom as he was to sick to join us for lunch. “Do you speak to your Patriarch at all?” I informed him our communication was sporadic. “I doubt he will remember me,” he rasped. “But if you ever speak to him, tell him that an old stranger, in an even stranger land, across the other side of the world says thank you. Thank you, from the bottom of his heart.”

It was only a few days later that he left us and some time after that, that I discovered, among his personal effects, an old dried flower and net to it a small, pocket sized photograph of the Ecumenical Patriarch, inscribed with the date of their meeting. I have treasured it ever since.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 12 October 2024

ANZAC: THE GREEK CHAPTER

War documentaries often seek to propagate or reinforce a national myth. When this happens, it is difficult for historians and veterans alike not to act as performative agents, showcasing power or espousing a certain narrative in front of the camera to legitimize themselves.

War documentaries thus form part of a broader documentary conflict, where images, information, and emotional engagement can often be weaponized. This in turn may serve to construct a symbiotic relationship where both historians and veterans collaborate to cultivated a mediated portrayal of the conflict in question, addressing the historian’s quest for control over the narrative, as well as the veterans’  need for recognition. This dynamic reveals both the harsh realities of conflict and but also the overarching predominance of an overarching discourse, portraying veterans not just as soldiers but as architects, albeit forgotten, of a new order, complicating the perception of war and its practitioners as violent and destructive.

Peter Ewer and John Irwin’s fascinating recently released documentary:  Anzac: The Greek Chapter thoughtfully addresses the aforementioned conundrum by their nuanced treatment of their subject matter. Narrated by journalist Barry Cassidy, whose father took part in the campaigns mentioned in the documentary and supported by a number of Greek community organisations, it purports to tell the story of the ANZAC contribution to the defence of Greece during World War II.

This in itself, forms part of the foundational tradition of the post-war Greek community in Australia. While our presence here predates the formation of the Australian state, mediated and controlled as it was by a dominant class that usurped sovereignty from its native inhabitants, it is widely disseminated in our community that the bonds connecting Greece and Australia were forged in the conflagration of conflict and somehow, our esteem in the eyes of those who allowed us to come here, derives from our conduct towards them during the Second World War.

In the documentary, this tradition is analysed via extensive interviews conducted of veterans. Indeed, these interviews comprise most of the documentary, ostensibly permitting the veterans to tell their own story, while also facilitating the viewer to establish an emotional connection with them. All of them describe the Greeks in glowing terms. They are “noble,” they “share food,” old ladies give them “pieces of chicken,” they provide ANZAC troops with a “royal welcome,” they display “typical Greek bravery.” Their generosity is so great that often the veterans narrating their experiences break into tears and cannot continue their narrative. One Greek lady featured in the documentary describes how her mother, risking the execution of her entire family, fed, clothed and bathed a paraplegic ANZAC soldier in a Cretan cave for over two years. She, like the veterans, portrays her mother as a selfless hero.

Both veterans and Greeks therefore seem to collaborate to adhere to a narrative that serves the ideological needs of both parties. While no archival footage or interview attests to the fear of the Greeks, the burden on their families or any resentment felt at having to hide or feed the ANZACS, the directors of the documentary subtly allow the interviewees to interrogate, analyse and ultimately question their own prevailing discourses. Some of the veterans for example, cast their relationship in terms of reciprocity. Greek hospitality was offered because the Greeks were “grateful the [ANZACS] were defending their country.” In this light, the Greek’s brave and selfless care of the ANZACS, while no doubt appreciated greatly, was considered recompense for the bravery and selflessness of the ANZACS themselves. Another veteran couches the relationship within the context of necessity: “They trusted us. They had to trust us.” Is this then a relationship and a subsequent admiration that developed out of a lack of choice? Possibly but this is not at all certain and is refuted by the veterans’ recounting of so many acts of sacrifice by the Greek populace. All of the veterans interviewed express surprise not at the fact that the Greeks cared for them, but at the magnitude of that hospitality and the intensity of the emotional connection they displayed towards them. On the other hand, the veteran who recounts how he witnessed from his hiding place, the execution of over twenty Cretan villages, subverts the narrative of reciprocity. This is after all, the raw reality of war.

Similarly, the country of Greece is described or rather idealised by the veterans, especially after their harrowing service in the deserts of North Africa, as a “paradise,” a “utopia,” or a “heaven.” Words such as “primitive” and “crude” appear to portray a Greece as a colonial backdrop to an imperialist endeavour. This is another area where a discourse forming narrative takes place. The documentary through extensive archival footage, provides valuable broader context as to the Greek campaign: how it came about, why it was necessitated and for what reason ANZAC troops participated. In the considered view of the directors, the ANZAC presence is a type of re-run of Gallipoli: British Prime Minister Winston Churchill did not tell the Australian and New Zealand Prime Ministers that Greece was indefensible and thus the ANZACS were dispensable, sacrificial lambs to his wider strategic concerns.

The directors of the documentary could have weaponised it so as to portray Australian soldiers as virtuous heroes, fighting and giving up their lives so that the preferred order, that of democracy and the rule of law would prevail. They chose not to do so. After all, such an ideological slant is not supported by the testimony of the veterans themselves, who present themselves not as lofty idealists but rather as reluctant heroes, or carefree larrikins, going off to war, for a sense of adventure, to see the world or because it is preferrable to fruit picking. Even here however, the documentary allows for alternative perspectives to emerge, with Aboriginal veteran, the late Reg Saunders poignantly stating: “We have been fighting wars ever since the Whites came.”

Allowing the veterans to narrate the campaigns provides immediacy as well as emotional intensity. From Vevi in the north we follow the ANZAC troops with bated breath south as they valiantly but futilely attempt to arrest and ultimately flee from the Nazi onslaught, our hearts leaping both at their successes and almost predetermined reverses. In Gallipoli, ANZAC troops were placed in a position where they were mere cannon fodder. In Greece, we learn, not only were ANZAC troops not told that their commanders believed that there the prospect of success was non-existent, they were also underequipped and not supplied with the necessary kit to make it through, among other challenges, the harsh Macedonian climate. Learning from veterans that they were forced to did trenches with their tin hats because they were not issued with shovels causes us to feel even more admiration for their steadfastness and their indomitability of spirit. Having already accepted that the overwhelming superiority of Nazi soldiers and materiel doomed the Anzac campaign from the outset, and learning as we do, that the Nazi parachute landing on Crete was completely unexpected, the implication however, is that on an equal playing field, “our” boys would have prevailed and that by enduring privation, displaying the courage that they did under fire, the ANZACS of the Greek Campaign have earned their place in the national myth as equal to the ANZACS of Gallipoli. The veterans’ narrations make it exceedingly hard to argue otherwise.

The documentary’s conclusion is inspired: There is moving footage of the descendants of veterans make pilgrimages to Greece in order to honour their ancestors’ sacrifice, and impliedly, co-opting the Greeks of Greece to do the same. The wreath laying and erection of plaques and monuments has become a common vocabulary between Greeks, Australians and Greek-Australians for the enshrinement of memory and the formation of mutually acceptable rites in which to celebrate and commemorate a particular form of martial valour and inter-ethnic solidarity. Thus two significant purposes are served: Recognition is afforded to soldiers whose particular contribution is no longer fashionable or highlighted adequately in their national narrative while contemporaneously, Greek-Australians who have largely been left out of that prevailing national narrative, gain enough purchase to attempt to entrench themselves within it, legitimising their presence and making claims of validation upon the dominant class.

 “Anzac: The Greek Chapter,” is a thoughtful, sensitive, multi-faceted, well-paced and exciting documentary that provides valuable insights both into our common history but also the formation of our modern identities. A feature of the 2024 Melbourne Greek Film Festival, it should not be missed.

DEAN KALIMNIOU

kalymnios@hotmail.com

First published in NKEE on Saturday 5 October 2024