Fun fact:
Greece is rich in history and culture and oozes good health, rest, and renewal. Not only do the beaches, beautiful weather and exotic foods encourage relaxation, but the country takes the afternoons off.
Greek siesta hours are between 2:00 pm to 6:00 pm in the summer and 3:00 pm to 5:00 pm in the winter. It is considered bad manners and is against the law to call a Greek household during these times of rest.
Thank you Unsplash for the photo by James Ting
When asked about a childhood moment that impacted his young life, my neighbour Nick from Greece wrote this story.
Written by Nick.
There are many different countries in the world, as someone I loved dearly used to say. Countries where all people look alike and live the same way. They believe in the same God and have the same system of values… and tend to be the most peaceful countries in our world. But there are countries where the plurality of people and lifestyles is so diverse that it makes the country restless, and those are the most beautiful and interesting countries.
But I was born in a country exactly in the impossible middle. My father struggled to identify with the country’s majority culture. However, at times, he could do so very diplomatically. But his father never could. My grandpa always knew who he was and how he had to prioritize the components of his identity. To this very day, he proudly prioritizes the origin that makes him belong to the minority, not the country’s majority culture. That was not the case with me because I was born precisely in the middle, to a father fully originating from an ethnic minority and to a mother fully originating from the national majority. I would speak and understand both minority and majority languages with the same ease, have friends from either group and identify as both at all times without difficulty.
In the summers, we, and by we, I mean all the ethnicities, would move from the majority of centers and spend time in the rural lands of our origin in the mountains of our country. Many would live, act, and enjoy our annual get-together as a cohesive whole, celebrating the common culture they were coming from. During those times, only one language was spoken, only one type of music was sung in only one language, and only one language was used to argue. This homogeneity spans across generations as kids, parents, grandparents and often great-grandparents live together in the village for almost two months. This linguistic and cultural homogeneity was rarely broken by a mother or father whose life had almost accidentally taken them to this place by marrying an ethnic person. Of a different ethnic background. The times were slowly changing, and more mixed-origin marriages would occur, initially with some skepticism. Over time it would transform into acceptance and trust that the ethnic culture was strong enough not to risk spoiling. And I was the offspring of a mixed marriage of this kind.
The consequences of the changing times could not be felt by everyone. Older adults were usually way past this point in life. They had decided what to identify as, but teenage kids were only beginning to understand the complexities of their ethnic origin on a national and personal level. Of course, an exploration as difficult as this had its ups and downs. Still, the realizations of this origin, both national and personal, were often far more complex for the teenagers of mixed heritage like me. While I could enjoy the benefits of belonging equally to both worlds all year round, I always identified with both roots. I never imagined that there would come a moment in time that I should farewell, or rather prioritize just one aspect of me. And I never imagined that the trigger would come from within the circle of my extended family.
My grandma usually took my cousin and me to play with her sister’s grandchildren every evening. The heat of my southern country eased up and gave more space for the mountainous breeze to reach our stone-walled yards and cool us. During this time of the day, you would see people leaving their stone-made houses to go to the village’s main square and socialize. Then, kids of all ages flooded the narrow cobble-stone pathways to play all sorts of games. We played hide-and-seek. Always! It was as if we had silently agreed that we all liked to escape reality and look for each other in turns, like we all ran after a hidden truth.
I could always hide well, go long or not, take risks to become one with my surroundings and always succeed. When I wanted not to be seen, I could manage not to be seen. During hiding, I would often use my invisibility to observe things and actions and hear conversations otherwise inaccessible to me. I almost always lost track of time immersed in observation while the others were looking for me. That day, I decided to hide by my cousin’s bedroom window. She and I were never on the same page, and we often argued about silly things but never disliked each other; at least, that’s what I thought. I saw she was talking with someone while casually relaxing on her bed. I thought this would be my aunt, but I have never been sure. The person on the other end of the call seemed to be only listening, not talking. My cousin was going off about something. “Typical,” I thought to myself. I got distracted by the neighbour’s cat, who had noticed my presence while on a neighbourhood patrol. Suddenly I heard my name. The discussion was somehow about me all along, I realized. I listened closely. “He doesn’t belong here,” she said, “he is different,” she continued. “We are not mixed, and he is. He is…” I could not hear more; I couldn’t take more! I left my hiding spot and ran back home without saying anything or explaining what had happened. All I wanted was to talk to my grandpa. I knew he would understand! I was my grandma’s relative, I thought. She would certainly like me to forget what I heard to avoid a scandal. I believed she was my dad’s favourite niece, so could he believe me? He could say I didn’t listen well, or it was not about me even. My mom would never understand. At times I felt she was not fully part of this ethnic world! My grandpa would undoubtedly understand. He was my best choice!
I ran. Fast. I knocked on the door. I was panting. I had run like I wanted to disappear or maybe like I wanted to escape the risk of him not being at home. I knew it was his time to go to the square. But there he was… almost ready to leave but still there. I ran to him, telling him what had happened. He smiled, and he hugged me. How much I needed that hug, I thought. Then he put me on his lap and started talking. He was calmer than I thought he would be after I had told him what I had overheard. “Sooner or later, this would happen,” he said. “We all have to figure out our priorities, and now it’s your turn. No matter what you decide, you will never stop being one or the other. No matter what, you will always belong to ethnic and national cultures. But it’s up to you to decide which part of you will come to consider more defining than the other.” I looked more confused than upset when I arrived home. He knew I needed time alone to process things, so he kissed me and left.
During hide and seek, I discovered a window to a parallel world. That of maturity, decisions, and realizations. My cousin never knew, but I secretly thanked her for that, but that was some days later when I had made up my mind. I also thank my grandpa, who easily helped, encouraged, and enabled me. I realize that we cannot change who we are and where we come from. Still, we can always embrace the decision of what we prioritize.
As my grandpa likes to say, after all, we are all so much alike.