“A search for belonging”
A sense of belonging is often reflected in the way someone feels about the place they call home, and tends to be negotiated through the morals and values they hold. Yet for some people, identities and geographies do not align—producing a feeling of estrangement and of not knowing where they truly belong. This is something that I heartily relate to growing up in Melbourne, as a child of divorced Greek migrant parents. For me, I felt I was not quite Greek and not entirely Australian.
This tension caused me to leave Melbourne in order to explore my identities and I embarked on a seven month long journey. A return to the motherland would have been an obvious choice for such a pilgrimage, yet I had already returned to Europe on three separate occasions before entering my twenties. But now, South America has become my geography of choice. Once there, I truly was in a stage of disorientation, but it somehow offered me a blanket of protection . I didn’t have to worry about being the ‘gringo,’ nor did I have to worry about being a local. I wasn’t fixed on being Australian, nor Greek - I was someone in between, just becoming a citizen of the world, where no one really knew where I was from.
During my travels whilst in Peru, I headed south and ventured into Puno, allowing me to cross the border and enter the wonderfully weird atmosphere that is Copacabana, Bolivia. Set amongst the backdrop was Lake Titicaca, the landmark that separates these two towns and sets the scene for what will follow. Seeing the rocky terrain against the dark blue water made me think: where am I? A lingering thought protruded from my time in the Amazon, where some of the local residents had asked about my origins—to which I replied ‘soy Australiano.’ But even the people from this rural community could see that I didn’t quite fit the white Australian narrative, so I further explained that my parents were from ‘ la Grecia.’
The older generations weren’t quite sure about the geographical location of Greece, so their children provided an explanation using films as a paradigm , mentioning blockbusters such as ‘ Troy’ and ‘300 .’ I was compared to Leonidas; I guess my thick, black, bushy beard sparked this connection, not my frail body. Whilst this was endearing, it once again sparked something deeper—I had often questioned how I have been racialized, and furthermore whether my constructed heritage fits neatly into its European context.
I begin by exploring my family histories from my position as a migrant’s child. Both of my parents relocated to Australia, my mother at age four and my father at twenty-two. On both sides of the family, everyone before me stems from rural village life, while I've spent the majority of my adult life trying to escape this inherited ideal. At times I felt like an imposter, trying to navigate my way into an urban societal structure. It was only in early adulthood that I started seeing the synchronicities of how my family’s experiences began to mirror my own.
In 1974 my father traveled to Australia during his early twenties, which was a trend at the time. Working abroad and saving money was a desirable outcome that would lead to a more comfortable life back home in Greece. He came from a village called Eleftheriani , which literally translates to ‘freedom,’ and the name holds true to its geography. The village is located high upon mountain peaks, at an altitude so great that even during Greece’s Turkish occupation it was never invaded—it didn’t have roads. When we mention our Eleftherían roots the same breathless reaction follows: “είναι σαν παραμύθι'' or “it's like a fairy tale.”
During my father’s time in Australia—thinking it was temporary—he met my mother and stayed. Being a child of their divorce, I knew a thing or two about rebellion and took a page out of his book. At the age of nineteen I moved to London, following in my sister’s footsteps and searching to embrace our European, but also our queer, roots. As fate would have it, I was in London during the 2009 financial crisis, and with the little work experience I had I was forced to return home eight months later. I left hoping I would return to the city which planted my love of design, and with this desire I chose furniture design as a path of study. It wasn’t until I was enrolled in a furniture design course that my father mentioned he was once an apprentice furniture maker back in Athens—and so, the synchronicities begin.
Figure 1. My father (center) worked as an apprentice furniture maker in Athens, circa 1966. Age 15.
During this time of studying I moved into a share-house in Abbotsford, which was only a few streets away from the house my mother grew up in. In fact, Hoddle Street, the iconic high-rise flats, and one residential block separated our homes. The neighborhood they lived in—Collingwood—also has a rich history of local manufacturing. Giagia had worked as a tailor on Oxford Street whilst Pappou worked as a factoryhand. By the time I graduated, I was working in a design studio as a workshop assistant just around the corner. At this stage, I thought my life mirrored my grandparents' own Australian journey, as this pocket of Melbourne provided us the same place to live and work in similar production lines. I even drank at the same local pub as Pappou did, which was just at the end of their street. My mother recalls going to fetch him home for dinner, but years later when I drank at the same spot, there was no family to draw me back home. The sad fact is that their journey began some 50 years before, when they first arrived; for them, it was an exciting beginning and the start of a new life together. For my part, I felt as though I was continuing this cycle, living in the same conditions they had decades earlier—but this time, alone.
Figure 2. My Grandparents with (left to right) my mum, uncle and aunt in front of their house on Campbell street, Collingwood (1968).
My maternal grandparents originally migrated to Melbourne in 1965, during a time when Greeks were highly encouraged to come to Australia by the Menzies Coalition Government. It was an attractive offer for many Greek people; they viewed coming to Australia as an economic opportunity, rather than feeling coerced or forced to leave Greece. The cultural historian Andonis Piperoglou explains that Greek migrants were welcomed by the Australian government as “hard-working agriculturalists,” but as you’ll see, my grandparents had already lost their agricultural roots—instead traveling to this new territory to explore a newfound sense of freedom. But upon entry into Australia, their family passport was stamped, classifying them as ‘aliens ’ and marking them as inherently different and removed from their new land.
This feeling of alienation was already something my grandparents were trying to escape from. They were the first generation to be born in a village that was eventually renamed Pirgoto , though some of my family members still refer to it by the old Turkish name— Tsoulali —which I will use as well. This change in place naming stems from the agreement signed on January 30th, 1923, which stated that all Greeks would go back to Greece and all Turks would return to Turkey. In a sense, the two nationalities flipped geographies, and after the Turkish abandonment of Tsoulali the Greek government allocated this village to the community my great-grandparents resided in.
Yet Tsoulali was a place they loathed. It was a dry, rocky, hilly terrain where life became much more difficult—their quality of life, diet, and overall health diminished. This was because there was no access to fresh water (until it was found on a nearby mountain), there was no forest to provide firewood for cooking, and ultimately, there weren’t as many farming opportunities.
The generation before them had once called the Gallipoli Peninsula, located in present-day Turkey, home. My great-grandparents came from a village called Krithia, named after the barley grain krithos , which was extensively cultivated on the land there. It was once a self-sufficient agricultural community where the land was green, some of the houses had wells with running water, and the sea gave people access to fishing as well as a port for trading. This was a cosmopolitan place, and undoubtedly a more prosperous time for the community. According to my Giagia, her parents' land was so vast that if you rode a horse from sunrise to sunset you still wouldn’t be able to cross it all.
Regardless of the dynamics today, it’s well known that the Greek and Turkish populations once shared a harmonious relationship. Yet with the Great War and growing tensions in the Gallipoli region, my great-grandparents had no choice but to flee Turkey in 1922. The village collective marched to the Sansil port, and from there my great-grandparents initially relocated to the island of Skiros—though it soon became clear that the island didn’t have the resources needed to support them. Thus, in September 1923 they made their way to mainland Greece. Finding themselves in a coastal town seemed fortunate, but there were too many people in one place and the community was divided, resulting in my great-grandparents finally residing in the dismal Tsoulali.
My grandparents grew up in this new reality of poverty; Giagia’s father was always depressed, reflecting upon his loss of fortune. My great-grandparents died unfulfilled in their new land, yet Giagia always remained cheerful and kept her spirits high. What my grandparents were searching for was a new dream, and this is why many of the original Krithians relocated to Australia. To this day Giagia encompasses the archetype of a noble woman, even though she remained in the working class.
Figure 3. My grandmother second from left with her sister, and her parents (centre) in the new village.
My family’s story is just one small piece of the extensive history of the Greek presence in Asia. Historians of the Greeks and Romans indicate that the former settled as far as Central Asia in the late fourth century BCE, in the aftermath of Alexander the Great’s campaigns. This is sometimes referred to as the ‘Hellenic East,’ covering a region that comprises present-day Afghanistan, Pakistan, and northwestern India. Having no evidence of my deeper family history there, I turn to the Anglo-Saxon tradition as a way to understand my last name, in which surnames often derive from the family trade. I might assume that my last name, Pittas, means ‘breadmaker’—referring to Greece’s national flatbread.
However, as I explore a little further, I find that its meaning could hold other traces. Originating in Sanskrit, one of the three ‘ doshas ’ or elements that are believed to be present in a person's body is referred to as ‘ Pitta .’ This might align with the Greek kingdoms that once occupied Asiaand my first name Vasili—or Βασίλη—could be associated with the word Βασιλιάς, translating to ‘king.’ While I naturally don’t identify with this meaning, the contrast of my first and last names signals an exploration of the different social positions reflected in my family tree.
Finding the deeper significance behind one's name is a process marginalized people sometimes use to search for their own meanings—with websites such as Urban Dictionary humorously tapping into this tendency. My acceptance of my own name/power was something I never wanted taken away from me. I remember this story from my mother: when I entered kindergarten I was asked if I could be called Bill, as in Australia ‘Vasili’ is colloquially translated to Billy or William. But even as a three year old, I wanted to hold onto my original identity and proudly told my teachers what my name was.
In fact, my name was only given to me following Greek tradition—I was simply named after my mother’s father. Though I’ve already discussed the interplay between geographies and names, I haven't yet mentioned that my Giagia and Pappou moved to the northern suburb of Kingsbury in 1974, where my Giagia still resides today. This creates another synchronicity to delve into. In 1999, a few years after my parents divorce, my mother moved us to a house around the corner from my grandparents; literally eight houses separated us. As she was a single mother working full time, they essentially became my secondary parental figures. When I left the family home and moved to the city, tracing my grandparents’ footsteps, a full circle was created as geographies shifted on the local scale. When I eventually returned to Kingsbury, it was to live with my Giagia during a time when I needed to leave my old self behind and start saving for South America. I helped care for her, and in return she provided this space for me. The relationship worked—maybe because our bond was governed by the name I share with her late husband.
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I’ve often wondered why I chose South America as the destination of my pilgrimage, since Greece was the obvious option. But when I had returned there as a child, what began as a cultural experience quickly became a traumatic one—a place I no longer wanted to be. I didn’t realize why I rejected my homeland until I began writing this chapter and relived the traumas I encountered there at age ten. I had been accepted by the Greek government to participate in an international summer camp, which involved spending three weeks in an environment where, naturally, I was alone. The trip started off with pure intentions; I have fond memories of visiting the sacred sites of Delphi and the Meteora. Yet the day the group visited the Acropolis, I was lying in a hospital bed in a nearby city.
Being so young and alone, there’s no one to vouch for these experiences which I recall. But what ultimately led me to the hospital bed took place after the camp group attended a Sunday church service across the road. Standing on the altar on a hot summer's day, the heat got to me and I fainted. I recall being carried out whilst a large group, mostly women, wailed and splashed water on me. Being dazed and confused, the view looking up with the sunlight filtering through the crisp green leaves, the blue sky, and scent of the pine trees made it all a beautiful moment. I thought I had died.
At another point during the three week stay, bush fires became a risk for the camp and we were forced to evacuate the mountain site and relocate to the coast, where we were made to stand in the sea. We were there for what felt like hours and in my distressed state I asked for water. The response I got from the team leader was that I was surrounded by water, and that I should drink some from the sea. As a child—and wanting to relieve myself of the stress—I turned my hands into a vessel and began drinking the salty water. I don’t know how much I drank, but the older kids stopped me from drinking any more.
Soon after, the other camp leaders came around with fresh bottled water. I guess the ocean water only contributed to my delusional state, and the traumas from this time seem to overlap.
Yet delusions, or imaginings, are simply a way to view the world in a different light. Now I found myself on the Isla del Sol , on Lake Titicaca in Bolivia. Once I pulled ashore to the beach adorned with wild grasses, I followed a path through the rocky terrain and was greeted by donkeys, agaves, and sun-kissed people wearing beautifully embroidered clothing. This all led me to the crowning image of deep blue water with terracotta coloured rooftops in the distance.
Figures 4, 5 & 6. Images taken by the author on Isla Del Sol, Bolivia, 2018.
Reaching the top of Isla del Sol, I knew that what I was trying to run away from ultimately found me. It drew me to a place of remembrance, as though I had truly been transported back to the Mediterranean, and I began to reflect not only on my experience in Greece, but my family’s too—thinking that somehow my pilgrimage had mirrored their own experiences. After my visit to that small island, I returned back to Copacabana, and days later I took it upon myself to bathe in the cold water of the lake’s shores . With my mind set in my Grecian past, the experience of bathing in the freshwater— unlike the salty water of the Mediterranean—became a symbolic ritual to cleanse my body’s exterior.
Feeling a disconnect from my own body leads back to the sense of not really fitting into a European identity, resonating with Greece’s geographical location—betwixt and between Europe and Asia. In the late 19th century, what is known as the ‘Europeanisation project’ began, a desperate attempt to Westernise Greeks. Piperoglou argues that “the ambiguous relationship that Greeks had with the politics of whiteness would be transformed, particularly as people from the Mediterranean region were re-racialised within the global politics of whiteness.” This resulted in contemporary Greeks being misleadingly identified as ‘white,’ even though historically there has been more of an Asian influence, with Turkish and Persian occupation in Greece, than a European one. In the Australian context, this of course changed with the following waves of migration, which helped shift social attitudes towards Greeks there. Local academic Fotis Kapetopoulos explains that “by the 1980s we graduated to sort of white in Australia, due to our numbers, changes to our names and the pluralist policy of multiculturalism. Our ‘success’ in education, business and politics played a role as well.”
My family's migration to Australia was part of these social shifts, yet somehow, I still needed to explore and move on my own. Following in their footsteps and changing geographies to foreign territories was my way of exploring my own resilience. Although temporary, unlike my family’s more permanent patterns of movement, the thing that unites our journeys is the immersion in a place where we didn’t speak the language. Perhaps, reflecting upon my parents’ and grandparents’ experiences when they first came to Australia—when they too were unable to communicate easily (even though my father attended night school to learn English after his arrival)—and in order to accept my family entirely, I needed to endure their hardships . Only this way could I appreciate their shortcomings and accept how their journeys shaped their feeling of being displaced in the world as we know it.
Figure 7. Image taken by the author on Isla Del Sol, Bolivia, 2018.