OPINION

Diaspora and the seeds of memory 

Diaspora and the seeds of memory 

Greeks here in Greece tend to peer quizzically at their compatriots who now live abroad, especially if they left several decades ago. Their eyes wander, they search for recognition in the eyes of those with whom they are reunited. Who are these people? What have they learned? How did they change? How do they view us now?

This is a subtle, perhaps subconscious process, but when it surfaces in us, we are discreet and cautious. Interestingly, the visitors are less subtle. They exhibit their answers with their clothes and jewelry and gadgets. And gifts.

Meetings after many years can be awkward. The visitors feel that they know the residents well. They seem to believe that they are stepping back in time to the people and cities and landmarks, shops and tavernas that they once loved. They want to believe that nothing has changed. They seem to harbor even their old, often repeated criticisms. The local Greeks know this. They sense it and see it. Who are these people who don’t acknowledge change?

The comments of comparison inevitably begin: “We,” the Greek Americans often say, “are so incredibly fortunate.” The finest doctors, our highways, our bridges, our schools. Our democracy.

A friend of mine, a journalist who knows that I spent many years among Greek Americans and then later years with Greek Australians, asked me to compare the two groups. The similarities of the diaspora are strikingly similar. The Greek Australians never cease to express their delight and their humble gratitude for living “in the most blessed country on Earth.” Australia, where my husband served as ambassador of Greece for over three years, is indeed wonderful in many ways. But the appreciation shone by the Greeks living there is quite impressive, sometimes appearing hyperbolic, not unlike the passion of the converted.

While the Greeks of the diaspora do not show the traits of the “ugly American” when visiting their homeland, their occasional critical comments are sometimes hurtful, especially when they are unfair. 

When a couple of Greek Americans from Detroit came to my home for dinner, I heard a barrage of unjust comparisons. When the lady excused herself for a few moments, her husband turned to me and chuckled. “Despite all that, tomorrow at the airport she will be crying. She will continue crying for a few weeks after we get back to the States, then she’ll begin to count the months and weeks before we return. And we always, but always, return.”

I couldn’t resist pointing out to him that most of what she and other members of the diaspora point to are not always accurate or fair; there have been admirable advancements in the infrastructure of Greece, in the economy, medical facilities, in the arts, with more theaters in Greece than any other European city, fusion food… Why does she long to return to in Detroit?

He shook his head, sadly. “You don’t understand. The expression you use is ‘to long for.’ People don’t long for taller buildings or better fences.” 

“So, then?”

“It’s a need to accept our choices. As for Greece, we loved it the way it was. That is what we miss… the nostalgia for the seeds of our childhood. The seeds of memory. The smell of jasmine in our childhood neighborhood, the aromas from our grandmother’s kitchen, the cries of the marketplace, the candles in the small church, the thyme in the hills, the children playing freely in the village square.”

“We can’t replicate this, as hard as we try. It’s impossible. Have you ever tried to replicate the simple horiatiki salata in the US? It just doesn’t work. No matter what you do, it isn’t the same. This is the fleeting power of nostalgia. One doesn’t feel nostalgia for bigger shopping malls.”

His wife returned to the table and I saw her in a new way. “So you leave in the morning?” I asked. She quickly wiped a tear before it reached her cheek.

“Are you happy to be going back?”

“Oh, yes! I have to say that I miss an organized life. Less chaos.”

As they left, I gave her a hug, as I remembered Nobel Prize winner Bob Dylan and his song “I Pity the Poor Immigrant.”


Tenia Christopoulos is a writer from Washington, DC. She is a contributor to Kathimerini, The Washington Post, Insider Magazine and Tatler and is the author of “Lords of the Dance.” 

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