May 2019

Orthodox Easter, a week later than Western Easter this year, has come and gone. On Megali Paraskevi, Great Friday, I wandered off to church in the early afternoon. But it turned out that I had arrived too early: the building was firmly locked. However, as I walked away I noticed signs of activity: a few women were walking up the road, and clearly church-bound, for all were carrying flowers. One was struggling with a huge bag of blooms, and was carrying a large bunch of flowers as well. They were off to decorate the epitaphios, the symbolic bier that is paraded through the streets in the evening. This progress is always a sombre but still celebratory occasion, led by incense-wielding priests and candle-bearing altar boys with the congregation following quietly behind, equipped with candles and small lanterns.

Saturday is a quiet day, but culminates in great numbers of people in every community gathering in church or churchyard for the late-night service that sees the arrival of the Holy Light at midnight. One minute there is darkness, then there is a burst of light as the priest emerges from the church building and people begin to light their candles. I have to confess I usually avoid these gatherings, for fear of the damage done to hearing by the double-bungers that are set off in a supposed and traditional defence against demons. People drift away after receiving the Holy Light, and go home to eat the mageritsa, the offal soup used to break the Lenten fast. Soon after midnight spectacular firework displays can be seen all along the edges of Messenian Bay.

I celebrated the day itself with a family I have known for decades. It’s an extended family in every sense, for my grandchildren and my friends’ grandchildren are third cousins. This is the way life still is in Greek villages. And Easter Day is celebrated much as it always has been, with lamb on the spit, many salads and cheeses, followed by a variety of sweet goodies, including my contribution of apple cake, all washed down with copious amounts of local wine.

And there was dancing. I have always been keen on Greek dances, even though my repertoire is limited, and even though I have to count like mad during some of the more difficult ones. Time was when Oz honour was upheld creditably enough by my whirling and twirling. Alas, the old grey mare she ain’t what she used to be many long years ago, and is definitely broken-winded. So I had a good go and enjoyed myself, but had to give up after about a quarter of an hour: these days I get breathless, sad to say.

On another tack entirely: the Australian federal election on May 18^th, the result of which I await with bated breath. I have found the state of Australian politics upsetting for a long time now. If I were resident in Australia I would be a member of Grandmothers Against Detention, and would be taking to the streets as a regular thing. Australia, like America, is a nation of immigrants, so it is hard to understand the policies that have been in place for years. And the leaders of the nation, who claim to be Christian gentlemen, have shown themselves to be hypocrites very much lacking in any sort of compassion or empathy. Perhaps the thing I find hardest to understand is the fact that they are all fathers.

It is simply not a pretty scene, and the matter of asylum seekers, so-called illegal immigrants, is not the only problem that needs to be solved. The problem of the drift to the far right, of course, is not restricted to Australia alone. Here in Greece the neo-Nazi party Golden Dawn is still around, and as I write it is only 24 hours since we learned that the right-wing party Vox has gained 24 seats in the new Spanish Parliament. And so it goes on.

As does the shocking news about climate change, which seems to be rattling on apace. No wonder so many people are protesting. But others seem to fail to see the irony in various situations such as the fact that 1500 private planes flew to Davos so that their owners could hear the remarkable David Attenborough issue a stark warning about the dire state of the world. I am one of the many people whose future is of a limited nature but…what about all our grandchildren? What sort of a world are they going to inherit? That is the most pressing question, and one that has no easy answer. Most crystal balls remain cloudy.

Australian poet Les Murray has died peacefully in his sleep at the age of 80. He published nearly 30 volumes of work, and many thought he was deserving of the Nobel Prize, but in any case, he has an unassailable place in Australian letters. I have The New Book of Australian Verse beside me as I write. Les Murray edited the volume, which is not so new anymore, but is especially notable for including works by Aboriginal writers: these are song-texts from many parts of the continent, and have been translated. In his introduction to the collection, which he wrote in 1986, Murray said: ‘Without examples from the senior culture, no picture of poetry in Australia can be complete.’ How very true.

Vale Les.