travel | Journeys and Star Gazing

The Bucket and the Sea

October 11, 2025

Written two decades after the Flotillas of Hope voyage — a small act on a wide sea that still echoes today.

The Bucket and the Sea

They call it a bucket list now — a catalogue of things to consume before death. Mountains to be conquered, rivers to be cruised, skydives to prove we were here. It sounds brave until you see the queues — climbers waiting their turn to summit Everest like shoppers at a checkout. Even the gods must turn away.

My own list was never written. It unfolded quietly, without permission. One day it became a voyage — a small flotilla bound for Nauru, its sails stitched from conscience rather than canvas. I had never sailed before, but joined those who had — experienced skippers who trusted purpose as much as compass. We went not for glory, but to bear witness — to shame our own government into releasing those who had been forgotten.

We never reached the island. Navy boats met us on the horizon, their warnings slicing through wind and salt. We turned back, our message carried instead by waves and news wires. And somehow, impossibly, it worked: seventy-seven refugees were released. Not because we were powerful, but because the sea has a way of amplifying truth.

There were no medals at the end, no television crews waiting on shore. Just salt on our lips and a strange, enduring silence — the kind that follows when the world briefly tilts toward justice.

So when I see others chasing their “bucket lust,” when they pay for their Everest or their Rhine cruise, I remember how it felt to sail into the unknown with nothing to sell and everything to lose. That was the real summit — a crossing not upward, but outward, beyond the self and into something vast, unforgiving, and sacred.

Some journeys are not about ascent. They are about surrender — and the rare, salt-stung moments when the wind itself seems to whisper: You’ve already arrived.

Flotillas of Hope was a 2004 Australian humanitarian voyage protesting the offshore detention of asylum seekers on Nauru. Although the boats were turned back by naval patrols, the action drew international attention — and soon after, of the hundreds detained, seventy-seven refugees were released.

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Posted by stavr0s

The Stone Seeker: A Myth of the Wandering Soul

October 2, 2025

A departure from my usual posts — this one takes the form of myth, an inner journey written as an allegory. I offer it as a companion to my ongoing stories.

He was called Stavros, which means Cross, and that was his burden — and his path.

One day, in a time that was no time, he heard the silent summons. Not from the sky, but from the pulse within the earth. He set out, carrying nothing but his breath and the ache of questions. He climbed the ancient spine of Sinai without sleep, ascending stone upon stone, as if walking up the ribs of a forgotten god. At the summit, the sun did not answer him — but it showed him he was not alone.

The descent was harder. That is the truth of all peaks. He reached the foot of the mountain and sat by the monastery of Katherine, where silence grows like lichen on old stone. There he met the Gatekeeper — a monk whose heart had fossilised into ritual. Stavros spoke the sacred tongue, but the Gatekeeper did not recognise him. He uttered the Word — “Yunan” — and dismissed him like a leaf blown against the stone walls.

So the Seeker left the sacred walls and returned to the road. It was on this road that he met the Trickster Guide — a Bedouin named Mohamed, who spoke through music and mischief. He offered herbs not for healing but for vision. He rolled a joint while guiding the chariot at great speed. Smoke curled like a serpent toward the heavens, and the desert began to shimmer.

Mohamed showed him the living map: dunes that were coastlines, mountains that were camels in repose. “This is Sinai,” he said, “and there is the Red Sea.” In that moment, the Seeker saw geography become prophecy. The land was not just land — it was a scroll unrolling.

Mohamed led him to a mosque, a café, a grove of planted trees. “We are of the 15 tribes,” the Guide said. “We plant what will shade the unborn.” The Seeker ate with him, drank the dark tea of mystery, and vanished into moonlit streets.

Then came the Labyrinth.

In the night city, he was lost among alleyways, where cats whispered secrets and doors led nowhere. He emerged by chance, or fate, and met the Scribe, who wrote his name in the language of the ancestors. “All men have three names,” said the Scribe, “but only one is true.”

The Seeker travelled again — across waters, under stars, on feluccas that rocked like cradles of time. He met companions with names like runes: Linda, Olga, Shayari. Together they smoked, drank rakii, and watched angels dissolve into the air like incense.

He arrived at a threshold: the City of Columns. There, under a sky bleached of memory, he sat on sand and turned a plastic bottle into a shrine. He waited for a chariot to carry him across the Nile of forgetting. Someone called him “the Greek with eight children,” and he laughed. He had none — and yet carried thousands within him.

Then came the Two Georges.

One was a Potter. One was a Priest of the Inner Fire. They saw in Stavros something he had hidden from himself. “You evoke the honour of Christ in others,” they said. “You wear innocence like armour.” They fed him macaroni and truth. In return, they asked for stories.

And so he spoke.

And in speaking, he remembered.

Dialogue became divination. Each question was a key. Each story a lost scroll. “In dialogue,” said George, “there is living transmission. The book you write is not of ink. It is breath, shared.”

They spoke of the monk on Athos who gave him a stone. “Leave this on the mountain,” he had said. And so Stavros carried it until the burden became a prayer. They spoke of karma, of grace, of gifts that are given but never earned.

Then came the desecration.

He passed through Luxor and saw the sign — McDonald’s, Temple of Luxor Street. The Golden Arches beside eternal stone. He took a photo, not to remember, but to mourn. Some desecrations are not loud. Some come wrapped in convenience.

And still, a stranger in Cairo whispered: “Welcome.” One word, like a flame in the dust.

The Seeker came to understand: giving and receiving were not separate acts. He had received shelter, food, names, music, silence. He had given stories, listening, laughter, witness. There was no accounting. Only flow.

He saw now that the journey had not been from place to place, but from self to soul. He gave before he received. He received before he gave. It was not barter. It was the hidden law.

And then — the Word.

“Sorry,” they said, “is just a word.” But he knew better. The Word began the world. Words held power, memory, vibration. Words could curse. Words could carry. Words could redeem.

He left the stone on the mountain.

He returned carrying only light.

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Upward: The Lunar Covenant

November 21, 2024

It begins with a simple truth: once our feet press into lunar dust, the idea of “territory” will no longer be terrestrial. Up there, where the Earth is but a luminous sphere suspended in infinite darkness, the lines we once drew on maps will fade into irrelevance. The moon, this desolate yet inviting orb, will become a proving ground—not for national prowess or the relentless propagation of Earthly divisions, but for something profound: a planetary consciousness.

Imagine it. An international colony on the moon, a true United Nations in form and spirit, founded not on the zero-sum games of sovereignty but on the shared acknowledgement of a single, unifying identity: Earth people. The very act of being there, breathing and building under the stark lunar sky, could mark the moment when humanity transcends its provincialism for the first time.

The Lunar Grid

For centuries, the Cartesian grid of longitude and latitude has shaped how we navigate Earth. These lines—mere abstractions of geometry—became tools of conquest, commerce, and communication. They dictated the boundaries of empires and the borders of states, often at the expense of unity. But the moon calls for a new dimension, a new line of orientation: up.

This new direction will not simply stretch between the Earth and its satellite. It will reorient our sense of belonging. Up will not be a direction on a map but a tether to our shared origins, a reminder that the lunar soil beneath our boots is no one’s property but everyone’s opportunity. From there, humanity might finally see itself as a single organism, unified by its fragility and potential.

Citizens of the Moon

The colony I envision is not an extension of Earth’s nations but a convergence of its people. Every country, race, religion, and culture is represented—not in competition but in collaboration. Scientists will work tirelessly to adapt human life to a hostile environment, theologians will gaze at Earth’s splendour to reimagine divinity, and philosophers will contemplate existence in the light of two worlds.

What will we call this place? Not a nation, for nations, are divisions. Not a state, for states, are constructs of power. This will be a covenant, a collective agreement that life on the moon exists to remind those on Earth of their shared inheritance. In this lunar colony’s assembly hall, humanity’s diversity will be its banner, and its mission will be simple yet transformative: to hold Earth accountable as its steward and guardian.

A Shift in Resources, A Shift in Perspective

The resources required to build this colony are already available—trapped in the budgets of defence ministries and the arsenals of militaries. Imagine if these billions were redirected, not toward war or domination, but toward the creation of a planetary NASA. A collaborative space agency where engineers from Iran sit beside those from the United States, where Chinese scientists innovate alongside Europeans, and where every nation has a stake—not in ownership, but in stewardship.

The moon’s colony would serve as a constant reminder of what we could achieve if we abandoned the folly of conflict. The spectacle of humanity working together on such a monumental scale could extinguish the fear of Armageddon, not through deterrence, but through inspiration.

Theological and Philosophical Horizons

When theologians stand on the moon and behold Earth as a fragile blue marble, how will they reconcile their doctrines with this newfound perspective? Will they see a planet created by their God or a planet that makes them question what creation truly means? And what of the phenomenologists? On the moon, free from the constraints of Earth’s rhythms, their meditations on perception and existence might reveal truths that could not be conceived within terrestrial limits.

The moon, barren though it may seem, will become fertile ground for ideas. It will be a place where science and spirituality coexist, where philosophy and practicality converge, and where the human mind expands as its feet tread new soil.

Guardians of the Solar System

A lunar colony with no territorial claims, no flags but one—Earth’s. Its existence will remind us of our precarious yet precious position in the universe. From that vantage, the solar system will not be an expanse to conquer but a neighbourhood to nurture.

What begins as a colony on the moon could become humanity’s first step toward guardianship of the solar system. We will learn not to extract but to protect, not to divide but to unite. The moon, devoid of life, will teach us to value the life we have on Earth.

Toward the Covenant

The moon calls us—not as a prize to be won but as a mirror to reflect what we could become. The colony will not merely be a home for those who live there but a constant beacon to those who remain below. It will remind us of a simple truth we often forget: we are one species, bound by one planet and entrusted with the care of a shared future.

The first step onto the moon was a small one for a man. The first colony will be a giant leap for humanity—not toward dominion, but toward unity. Upward, then, not as conquerors, but as Earth people.

Upward, to become guardians of the solar system and stewards of our fragile world. Upward, to find the best version of ourselves.

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Draft of First Chapter of a Book I’m Writing

June 5, 2024

I know this is unusual for a writer to post a draft of a first chapter of a book they are writing. As those who write know, writing is lonely. I’m about 3/4 of the way through with the first draft of my book and I have no idea how it will be received. It is based on my trip to Turkey looking for people who knew or are related to my grandparents who were Pontic Greek refugees during the holocaust in Turkey in the 1920’s. Let me know what you think in the comments area. By the way – Papou means grandfather and Yiayia means grandmother in Greek.

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“You can’t go there! You’d be crazy to go,” he grabbed the towel on the chair and wiped his face, “This is not Australia; this is Greece, and you want to go to the village where your family was massacred in Turkey!” He cocked his eyebrow and wiped the corner of his mouth with his finger. We were in the kitchen. Light streamed through the window, leaving a vivid white patch on the tablecloth.

He leaned towards me with specks of sawdust in his hair. He said,

“Why go there? You can have a holiday anywhere but want to go to Bafra. Do you know how far it’s from Constantinople?”

His singlet was sweaty, and his boots and pants were spattered with cement. He sat on the fruit box, tugged at his shoes, and placed them beside the broom.

How do I explain my motives to Taki? I flew from Australia, and now, after over 40 years, I am back in my birthplace, Yannina, Greece. I wasn’t always going to be so late returning to where I was born, but raising kids and lacking money meant I couldn’t go. My father’s death made it possible for me to return from the Great Southern Land to Greece. I was a late prodigal son, now a stranger and not a son.

We migrated from Greece when I was four years old. All my memories and pictures are of a child – rolling down a hill, the log bridge I crawled across so small and scared, stuffing olive seeds down holes in the floor. My father’s recent death shocked me into looking at my life. The hourglass sand days and moments flipped over. Thoughts were framed with death, the fence around life. But after that, what? I couldn’t think of a better place to be than on the Holy Mountain celebrating Easter with these and other questions, breaking bread with monks.

“Look, I understand…..you don’t want me to get hurt,” I said

“Hurt! That’s what you call it. Hurt? I don’t want you killed! Are you stupid or what? If you go to Bafra, my dear cousin, you will either be killed or bashed to a pulp. Same thing. It’s that simple.”

He knew that as a fact.

I meticulously planned my journey from my home in Sydney over many years, studying a world map. My gaze lingered over Asia Minor and Greece, retracing the paths of my ancestry, both in blood and spirit. Countless times, my finger traced along this route. First, it pressed upon Athens, then Patras, followed by Yannina, and further to the Holy Mountain. From there, finger by finger, it went towards Turkey, Syria, Jordan, Israel, Mount Sinai, Cairo, and back to Athens for my return. Later, I would repeat this ritual on the computer, using a cursor and a click to delve into the two-dimensional world of maps. It was a voyage of dreams, one I had envisioned for years.

Upon learning that my mother was the child of refugees, the desire to visit the land from which my grandparents had escaped grew within me. I was born in Greece to a Pontic Greek mother and a mainland Greek father. My mother seldom spoke of her heritage, save for a few passing remarks, like, “If you think Aboriginal people are mistreated, you should have seen how we were treated in Greece!” Whenever I asked her to elaborate, she would sidestep the question. Thus, I lacked a label for my identity for the longest time — I was Greek. That was it. Until much later, I discovered I was a Pontic Greek because my mother was Pontian.

After migrating to Australia, I never had the chance to see my grandparents again. We departed Greece when I was four years old. While my father’s parents perished at the hands of the Nazis during World War II, my mother’s parents were alive when I came into this world. Turkish was the initial language that enveloped me from birth until age four. I learned this recently. My mother informed me that the Greek government had made it illegal for Greek refugees from Turkey to speak Turkish, insisting they only use Greek. It must have been a challenge if they didn’t know the language. Nevertheless, in the village of my birth, predominantly inhabited by refugees from Turkey, Turkish was spoken within the confines of the home, only giving way to Greek when outsiders visited.

So, why were there Greek refugees from Turkey? My mother never disclosed the details. Even my father remained silent on the matter. Thus, I knew nothing about the Greek Holocaust until much later in life. My mother either didn’t wish to divulge the information or was unaware. As the youngest, she wasn’t born when my grandparents fled Turkey.

“Taki, I simply want to look at the village where our grandparents resided before they were forced to flee Turkey. It’s been over 80 years since that happened! I yearn to find someone who knew them. Everyone in our family perished in Turkey, except for our grandparents. I’m curious to witness that place. I never had the opportunity to know my grandparents as you have. My parents whisked me away to Australia when I was a mere four years old. I spent my days on the opposite side of the planet, growing up and becoming a father. This morning, I finally visited Papou’s and Yiayia’s graves. And that’s precisely why I’m bound for Bafra—to connect with my ancestral roots.”

I couldn’t reveal to him that my journey harboured other destinations and motives, such as Konya in Anatolia, where I wished to pay homage to Rumi, the Sufi saint. I feared that if I disclosed this, he would utterly panic and misconstrue my intentions. In his eyes, being Greek equated to being an Orthodox Christian, and displaying any interest in Islam aroused suspicion. It pressed all the wrong buttons.

“Ah, Stavro, you think like an Australian, but history intertwines whether you like it here. One glimpse of you, and they’ll recognize you as a Greek. Then, that’s it…you become a marked man.”

I took a seat at the table, the coffee still steaming. Taki settled across from me. “What’s this? I’ve toiled all day under the scorching sun, constructing a chicken shed, and you haven’t offered me a cup of coffee!” He grinned.

I poured him a coffee. His slender hand clasped the small, white cup while his other hand gently tapped the tablecloth in rhythm with the melodies wafting from the adjacent lounge room.

“So, is this the reason you have yet to embark on your journey to Bafra to see the homeland of our grandparents? It’s just a few days away by train and bus, yet you haven’t set foot there? I find it hard to believe that you lack the curiosity to see where they came from.”

“That’s the thing. Turks in Constantinople are tolerable; they’re city folks. But beyond the city, in the small towns and villages, Greeks face peril. Bafra, a small town on the Black Sea coast, lies over a thousand miles from the city. You don’t speak Turkish, and you can’t disguise the fact that you’re Greek. I don’t know if they still rely on donkeys and horses for transportation. You’re venturing into history, into suffering, into genocide. It’s perilous for a Greek, and there won’t be any tourists or travellers because there’s nothing to entice them. So, you’ll be on your own. Anything could befall you—imprisonment, remember the movie ‘Midnight Express’? And no one will come to your aid. I can’t think of anything more foolish than spending your vacation on that.”

“You forget one thing—I’m Australian. That’s what my passport says. Even if I don’t meet anyone, at least I can return to Australia with a collection of photographs depicting the area. Honestly, Taki, I believe you worry too much,” I remarked.

“How do you expect to find someone connected to our grandparents? You don’t have an address, you can’t speak Turkish, and no soul speaks English or Greek where you’re heading. You’re a Christian, they’re Muslim—remember, their ancestors massacred Greeks and Armenians by the millions. You do not understand what you’re getting yourself into, and I can’t bear the thought of not warning you.”

“I won’t be undertaking this journey alone.”

“What do you mean? Who’s accompanying you?”

“Well, I’ll depart for Easter for the Holy Mountain in a few days. Being there will guide me to someone who knew our grandparents, even if I can’t speak Turkish.”

“What? Will praying alongside monks in a monastery assist you in achieving your goal? Are you serious? You’re out of your mind. I had no idea you were a religious man.”

“I’m not religious if you measure it by church attendance. Besides, I had planned to visit the Holy Mountain with my father before he passed away, and now seems like the perfect time to fulfil his wish. I believe that extraordinary things can happen, and since I only have myself, why not seek the support of others who may aid me in some way? I believe that merely being on the Holy Mountain for Easter will help my desire come to fruition.”

“I don’t understand you. You’re an educated man—the first in our family to obtain a university degree. You use computers and hold a respectable job with great responsibility in Australia. How can you believe in superstitious nonsense like God, prayer, and the notion that Mount Athos and its monks hold any value? How can monks on a mountaintop in Greece assist you in Turkey? These are the things peasants or,” he widened his eyes, “madmen believe in!”

While I wasn’t a regular churchgoer, the word ‘pilgrim’ resonated with me more than ‘tourist.’ Pilgrims embark on a personal quest for truth regardless of faith or belief. I sought truth, and I craved tangible evidence of that truth. Was I a sceptical pilgrim? Was I a doubting Thomas with time on his hands?

“Have you ever been to the Holy Mountain?” I inquired.

“No, and I never will set foot there. If I ever do visit, it’ll be a day trip as part of a tourist group—take some videos, snap a few photos, and maybe buy a souvenir. But there’s no way I’ll ever spend the night and sleep there.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s those monks. They possess powers—they can see right through you. I’ve heard that once you converse with a monk from Mount Athos, they see your lies. You know, as if they have X-ray vision into your soul.”

“The X-ray eye? I’ve heard of the evil eye, but is that its reverse? You’re afraid of something you don’t even believe in.”

“Just because they possess powers doesn’t mean they converse with angels and grapple with demons. They are formidable men, and I don’t want any man peering into my soul,” he said.

“So, you’re suggesting their powers don’t come from God?”

“Nor the Devil.”

“Then where do they come from, if not God or the Devil?”

“They emanate from within themselves. How would I know? Look, there’s no way I would go to Mount Athos or Bafra. I can’t fathom your mind. You’d rather visit a monastery than Mykonos and its discos. And you’re alone—your wife is on the other side of the world—you’re on vacation. Enjoy yourself! You don’t even have a video camera! Being from Australia, everyone expects you to have money… You do have money, don’t you?”

“I have enough for my journey and to return to Australia.”

I displayed my discount watch from the supermarket. I pulled my inexpensive snap camera from my shoulder bag on the chair. “I don’t want to fret over possessions while I’m on the move. Besides, who would want to steal my watch or camera?” I chuckled.

“So, you’ve got it all figured out, huh? You want to be invisible, just like the common folks. Well, good luck with that,” he laughed.

He rose to freshen up and change.

“Tomorrow, I’ll be your tour guide. I want to take you to a special place—a wax museum showcasing the history between us and the Turks, created by the renowned Greek sculptor Pavlos Vrallis. The real history. You’ll see wax figures dressed as your grandfather and grandmother did when they arrived in 1922.”

“You know, I was in Constantinople a few months ago.”

“What? How was it?”

“Turkey was ravaged during the massive earthquake in 1999, just like Greece, but the Turks suffered even more. Many Greeks went over to lend a hand. What do you do when you witness 100,000 people perish next door? But sharing this doesn’t mean I share your enthusiasm for going to Bafra. I told you, a big city, a big heart— a small village, a small heart.”

“That’s nonsense. Do you realize we’re in a small town right now? Does that mean everyone here has a small heart? What about those monks with powers residing on an isolated mountaintop—do they possess small hearts? Do you believe that New York and London people have the biggest hearts?”

“You seem to have all the answers. Later, I’ll take you to my workshop. I want to show you some silverware I’ve been working on. I’m crafting the Passion of Christ in bronze for the local church.”

“You’re full of contradictions. You don’t believe in God and consider religious people foolish, yet you’re sculpting the life of Christ in bronze for a church!”

“There’s no contradiction. Priests want that image, and they pay me, and I make my living. I’ve been asked to make all sorts of designs by all sorts of people. To me, they’re all the same – paying customers. The local priest wants that design, and I give it to him for a price. It’s that simple. It puts bread on my table. So, yes, I suppose I can thank God for that!”

“Ah, Stavro! How good it is to see you this morning, to hug you!” she said, “I remember you as a baby. The last time I saw you was before you left for Australia. You crawled on the floor, picked up crumbs, and put them in your mouth. Along with the crumbs, you picked up some dirt. As you ate the bread, the dirt became mud, dribbling down the side of your mouth. Soon all your mouth was covered in mud!” She laughed between the tears. Yes, we were hungry…and now here you are, returned from Australia …a palikari!” she hugged and kissed me on my eyes, forehead and cheeks. She smelt of fine mint, “Come, let me see you,” she stepped back with her hands on her hips, her white hair in a neat bun on top of her head. She looked me up and down and broke into tears. We held each other. Demoklia was my aunt, Takis’ mother.

“Mother, he’s going to Turkey in a few days to visit Bafra,” he said half whispering.

She either did not hear him or decided to ignore it.

“You have so much to learn. Your mother didn’t tell you the whole story,” she said, taking my hand resting on the table. Her clasp was like a child’s, only a little more brittle, her hand warm and smooth.

“Did you know we prayed for you, my boy? Your family names were given to our priest and placed on the holy altar. We prayed for you and your family. Your father was a good man.” She bowed her head and crossed herself.

I looked forward to the time when I was not reminded of his death. She looked like an owl, with big glasses that made her eyes seem like saucers. Her white hair was parted in the middle, creating an oval frame straight down the centre. She was my mother’s older sister.

“Your mother was very young when she married. Yes, you were born when she was only 15. A baby is having a baby. We all loved you, and we played with you as a doll. But your mother doesn’t know all the stories, doesn’t know what happened in Turkey because she left to go to Australia. We heard the stories from your papou and yia yia, our father and mother.”

“I only knew my grandparents as a baby and can’t remember them. Now that my father has died, I wish to reclaim my Greek heritage.” I said.

“You have Greek parents, speak Greek, and are Orthodox—you have your heritage!” she smiled.

“I know, but I want to see where my grandparents came from. I want to breathe the air & stand on the ground they stood on.”

I don’t know how much your mother told you about your grandparents, so I’ll share what I know. She sat, hands clasped, leaning in, eyes locked on mine.

Your papou, a brave warrior. And your yiayia, equally courageous. They weren’t into that nationalist nonsense—neither Greek nor Turkish. Their fight was against injustice. When news reached the Greeks that the Turks were massacring our Armenian kin, the Greeks knew they’d be next. They armed themselves with guns, knives, any damn thing they could find. Those readying for battle fled to the hills and hid in caves. Sometimes, they’d venture to towns for supplies and clash with the Turks. But your papou and yiayia, stubborn as ever, stayed in the city despite the warnings of certain death.” She paused, raising her arms high, head held high. A sigh escaped her lips.

“One day, Greeks were herded into St. George’s little church. Men, women, children, the old, the young—all corralled inside, then the church was set ablaze. They all perished. Greek homes turned to ash. Your grandparents’ house, too, went up in flames. As it burned, everyone fled, chased by Turks on horseback. When Elis, your yiayia’s sister, tried climbing out of the window, a Turk on horseback spotted her and yelled, ‘Too beautiful to burn and die!’ He snatched her up onto his horse. We know ’cause Nicholas, a family friend, hid nearby, half his body burnt, watched it all unfold from the bushes.”

Somehow, your grandparents found their way to the hills and took shelter in caves. After a while, your papou and some men ventured back to town for supplies. They found nothing but ruin—no Greeks in sight. They combed the church, remnants smouldering, smoke twirling in the air. People lay there—charred, some decapitated—their clothes tarnished by smoke and soot. All dead. As they turned to leave, footsteps and gunfire echoed. Your papou gunned down a Turk while they hurried back to the hills. Little did they know that what happened in Bafra would be happening throughout our land.

Soon after, Greeks in the hills and everywhere else embarked on a journey to Constantinople and then fled to mainland Greece as refugees.

“Mother, tell him ’bout yiayia feeding the children during their trek to Greece,” Taki interjected.

“Your yiayia, a remarkable woman,” she said. “One day, after weeks of marching, exhaustion clawing at them, parched and famished, they reached the outskirts of Constantinople. Their group, about thirty strong, stumbled upon a trickling creek offering fresh water. They made camp by that creek that night. No food but water to quench their thirst and a campfire to warm their weary bones.

Yiayia shared the children’s hunger and felt it deep within her gut. With a commanding voice, she called out, “Come, children! I have food for you. Come!” Rising to her feet, she waved her hands, beckoning the children to gather. Soon, seven young ones huddled around her. Before her, a bowl of water sat as the children settled cross-legged or on their knees. Steady as a rock, yiayia held the bowl while her gaze fixed upon them. She spoke, her voice filled with faith, “The Mother of God hasn’t forgotten us.” In her tattered coat, she rummaged, retrieving a small icon of Theotokos—the Mother of God. “This icon shall nourish us,” she declared. The children leaned in, eager for a glimpse. They beheld Mary cradling her child, Jesus. “It’s a sacred icon, capable of miracles. I shall pass it on to you. Kiss it, make the sign of the cross, then pass it along.” Yiayia raised the icon to her lips, pressed a tender kiss, crossed herself, and handed it to the children. Each child, wide-eyed with anticipation, peered at the tiny icon, kissed it, made the sign of the cross, and passed it to the next in the circle. When the icon returned to yiayia, the children’s faces glowed with hope. Yiayia raised the icon above her head, then lowered it gently toward the water-filled bowl, uttering a prayer. Immersed in prayer, she lifted and immersed the icon three times.

When the prayer ended, Yiayia carefully dried the icon with a corner of her dress, stowing it back in her coat. “Now, children, this water is food. Come and eat.” She allowed each child to take a few mouthfuls, and soon, all the nourishment vanished. For that night, the children were fed, their hunger appeased.

I asked, my voice filled with curiosity, “Was it truly food?”

Dimoklea smiled and replied, “Well, the children ceased their cries and complaints of hunger. So, what do you reckon?”

Silent and awestruck, I pondered. After a while, I uttered, “I’m going to Bafra. I must.”

“All right, you’re set on going. I see your mind will stay the same. Stubborn and determined, just like your grandfather. I shall give you something that might aid you in finding people who knew your grandparents in Turkey.”

She rose from her seat and left the kitchen. Our gazes met. Taki shrugged and shook his head. None of us knew what she had in mind. After a brief absence, she returned, clutching folded paper and a photograph.

“Take this photo of your grandmother,” she said. “Your resemblance is striking. Anyone can see it. And take this letter.”

“A letter? What’s in it?” I inquired.

“It’s in Turkish, a letter from your grandaunt, your grandmother’s sister,” she replied.

“I thought everyone in our family was killed in Turkey. How could yiayia receive a letter from her sister?”

“Ah, remember her sister whom a Turk snatched on horseback? You know the tale now, just as well as your cousins do, but they’re unaware of this letter.” She waved the letter in the air.

“So, you’re saying a grandaunt remained in Turkey and might still be alive?”

“I doubt she’s alive now, for that would mean she’s over 120 years old! No, there might be a family who knows her. In this letter to your yiayia, she said she’s married and has children, and one of her children wrote it for her.”

“Hold on, hold on. It’s all happening too quickly. How did yiayia know where to send the letter?” I asked, shock evident in my voice.

“Yiayia simply addressed it to Bafra with Elis’ name on the envelope. People know each other in a village, and that’s how your grandmother’s letter reached her sister.” She paused, ensuring she had our undivided attention. “Now, I’ll translate the letter from Turkish.” Opening the already yellowed paper, she began reading it in Turkish, sentence by sentence, translating it into Greek.

The essence of the letter conveyed her immense joy upon receiving yiayia’s letter. She spoke of kissing her eyes and forehead, embracing her. She acknowledged that life continues, and although she’s now a different person and a mother, deep in her heart, she knows her true identity.

“Now, the most crucial element of this letter is the address from which it was sent—Kafkas Hotel, Bafra. Take this letter and the photo. The photo will reveal the physical resemblance to your grandmother. At the same time, the letter, written in Turkish, will indicate whom you seek and why.”

My cousin approached to examine the letter and photo in my hand. I declared, “Already, I have a solid starting point in finding someone who knew Papa and Yiayia. I might even discover relatives!”
Taki chuckled. “Well, you might find someone, but it might not be pleasant.”

I gazed at the photo and saw a similarity in the contours of our faces. As I observed the handwritten Turkish script in the letter, I perceived it as a gateway to my heritage and lineage.

5 Comments | Expression, fiction, History, human rights, Mount Athos, odyssey, personal, politics, refugees, travel, Uncategorized, writing | Tagged: europe, greece, History, Holocaust, human rights. refugees, memoir, Pontic Greeks, travel, turkey, writing | Permalink
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Doors and Windows from Middle East Journey

February 24, 2024

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A Special Locket/Talisman – an excerpt from a story I’m writing…

October 11, 2020

My name Stavros means Cross in Greek. So, this Philakto (Φυλαχτο) which means “talisman” carries another layer of meaning for me. This talisman has appeared and disappeared in my life a number of times. Maybe it was an unconscious forgetfulness as to where I placed it but whatever reason I may not see it for some years. When it appears it’s always at a time when I need some connection with something more than the rational world can provide me. Well, this talisman came into my hands just the other day and now I’m wearing it around my neck .

The excerpt below comes from a story that’s “faction” ie based on my travels through Australia when I was younger and intensely searching for Truth. I believed that the Road & the synchronicity of events that happen travelling around with hardly any money would reveal to me the deeper pattern behind the chaos of my life. Did it? Well, read my book when I finish it 🙂

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Chinatown, Honiara, Solomon Islands before the 2006 Fires.

October 5, 2020

We went on an incredible journey to Nauru in 2004 to bring hope to the refugees imprisoned on Nauru. On the way there we were warned that the Australian Government may play dirty and get someone to contaminate our fuel so it was best not to go to Honiara to get supplies. Honiara is the capital of the Solomon Islands. So we didn’t go there, we went to Santa Cruz, the most isolated island of the Solomons on the way to Nauru.

On our return journey to Australia it was safe to go via Honiara and this was when we discovered the city’s Chinatown. If you want to know about the history of the Chinese merchants in Honiara just click here.

In 2006 there were major riots which destroyed 90% of Chinatown. The photos below are just some that I took when we visited in 2004. Someone on Twitter was grateful that I shared a couple of these photos because it brought back many wonderful memories they had of Chinatown.

So, the first photo is of the fires in 2006.

The rest of the photos of Chinatown, Honiara I took in 2004.

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A Night in the Heart of Australia

April 6, 2017

This is an excerpt from a larger article “A Ganma Odyssey” in this blog https://dodona777.wordpress.com/2016/01/18/a-ganma-odyssey-2/

I will post other stories about my travels across Australia so look at this excerpt as if it’s a prologue of sorts.

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It’s been 25 years since I last visited Central Australia. Back then, the Sturt Highway was a two way dirt road all the way from Darwin to near Port Augusta. In 1972, words like revolution, liberation, justice, equality, freedom and peace, rolled off my tongue with a tender passion. Feeling the emptiness in the institutions, the knowledge factories and the general lack of soul in the world I hit the road. Back then I was searching for something. Nowadays, I’m still searching and it seems that the ” R ” word is the only one that doesn’t roll off my tongue so easily. Perhaps it should.
Twenty five years ago I found myself, with little more than nothing, in the heart of Australia. All I had was my canvas pack with a few clothes, a couple of books and some water in a bottle. I had no money. The previous three nights I had slept under the stars along the highway and during the day I prayed for a lift. I was two hours south of Alice heading for Adelaide when I was dropped off at Erldunda, near the turn off to Uluru (Ayers Rock) and Kata Tjuta (The Olgas). Across the road a petrol bowser stood as if on guard outside the general shop. A bus arrived and parked a few metres away from where I was standing. I watched the tourists get off. I hadn’t eaten a thing for over three days and I knew that the people getting off the bus would have something to eat. I approached a woman in a white hat as she stepped off the bus. Looking her in the eyes I said, “Excuse me, have you any food?”.

She looked at me with some pity and reached her hand into a brown paper bag pulling out a small green tomato. As she handed me the fruit I sensed everyone looking at me, from the bus driver to the little girl with her face pressed against the bus window. The white hat woman released the tomato into my hand and a ripple of disgust crossed her eyes and brow. I was dirty, I was homeless, a Dharma Bum now just a bum. I accepted the food and turned away from my shame. I noticed someone standing ahead of me in the distance waving, beckoning me to come over.

uluru-kata_tjuta1

Photo © Mark Moxon 1995-2017
All Rights Reserved

I had nothing to lose but everything to gain, holding the unripe tomato in my hand, I walked towards the stranger. As I got closer I could see white hair and a white beard on the face of an old black man. He wore trousers that were a little too big for him and a coat that was a little too small. He smiled and placed his hand on his belly whispering, what sounded like, “Hunger…hunger..” He took me by the arm and showed me to his home by the highway. It was a lean to humpy with a corrugated iron mulga branch roof. Some old flour bags were scattered on the dirt floor to sit on. He shared with me some milk arrowroot biscuit pieces and a powdered milk drink in a tin cup. He let me stay the night. The shop with the petrol bowser had switched its lights off. During the night, nothing much was said between us – the silences, with the occasional bark of a lone dog, said it all.

In the centre of Australia I saw that the dispossessed ones were the generous ones. We non – indigenous ones take and take while these people, the original ones give and give. Twenty five years later, in 1997, our government wants to stop the original people from reestablishing their culture and reconnecting with their land. Extinguishing the recently acquired native title rights is the equivalent of stealing what little these people have and giving this little to the rich, whether pastoralists, miners or just greedy transnational corporations. Will we the non – indigenous ones ever learn? So, 25 years later I was returning with a hunger so subtle that you’d miss it if you weren’t seeking it. It’s a hunger for something which may transform the hole in my being to the whole.

3 Comments | aboriginal culture, education, ganma, human rights, odyssey, politics, travel, Uncategorized | Tagged: aboriginal culture, education, travel, White Invasion | Permalink
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A Ganma Odyssey

January 18, 2016

A Ganma OdysseyThe Literacy Education Research Network (LERN) Conference, to most participants, represented far more than a collection of academic papers and workshops and, for Stavros at least, it spanned far longer than just 4 days…

Whatever the answers to these questions, I felt that in my own life, this journey to the Centre was a definite circle, a cycle of some sorts.

The LERN Conference promised an exploration into multiliteracies, cross cultural communication, anti- racism education and multicultural multimedia all under the theme of Learning. I didn’t know if my hunger would be satisfied attending the Conference. I was hoping for a taste, even a sniff of something that’s true. I closed the book and through the plane’s window noticed below us a road leading out of the desert. In the distance, over the desert and the dunes we could see it came from Alice Springs.

The next morning I arrived at the Araluen Arts Centre in Alice Springs for the Opening Ceremony of the Conference. After the introduction and welcome by the traditional elders from Alice Springs, the Larumba Traditional Women’s Dance Group danced and sang traditional stories that could have a heritage far older than 100,000 years. The singing reminded me of Byzantine chants in the Greek Orthodox Church. The more I listened the more resonances I could hear, like echoes, reminding me of other sacred utterances I had heard – a Sufi zikhr to a Buddhist chant, a Hindu mantra and a native American prayer. It was almost as if there exists just one sacred song with many different versions vibrating through humanity’s common voice. It was fitting that the singing touched these notes because we were an international gathering.

I tried to make sense of the dance movements and resorted to number and rhythm. I was hoping that by keeping count of the position changes and the number of people moving in my awareness, would like insect repellent, keep away unnecessary inner talk. What was before me could not be evaluated in terms other than itself. We were not witnessing a performance, but rather we were being asked to be part of the ceremony. Sure, we were sitting watching a stage, but in the intention of welcoming us, we were entering their land, their world view on their terms.

The time span of these stories, these oral histories and ceremonies force us to come to terms with our sense of time. How do we know that our sense of the present moment is the only one around? Other peoples may have a much larger sense of the present moment than we do. And the other way around. You know, if we were truly transcultural we would have to accept Australia’s original peoples’ story of their origin. The translation of Tjukurrpa as Dreamtime has in many ways devalued its significance to those whose idea of dreaming is nothing other than random – neurological – connections – sparking – off – in – the – brain – when – one – is – sleeping phenomena. The idea of a dream time in this context points to a time that is unreal, wispy as inconsequential jingles and daydreams. However, if we consider that Tjukurrpa may be as real in its own terms as cyber space is in the technological, we may have an entry into true and equal dialogue.

Whenever Western experts place their civilisation stethoscopes on Aboriginal artefacts and markings the dating goes further and further back into the mists of time. First the age of indigenous culture was put at 20,000 years , then to 40,000 years, then 100,000 years and currently as a controversial minimum 160,000 years before our present time. Perhaps its easier to accept their version of things. Kevin Bates worked next door to me as the Regional Aboriginal Coordinator at Newcastle Campus. One day I asked him how long did he think Aboriginal culture was around for. I thought that he might say 200,000 years or even longer. He said, “We’ve been here since the beginning of time.” I asked him if he meant that metaphorically. He replied, “What is it with you? It says what it means – we’ve been here since the beginning of time.”

During the Opening Plenary Session, Vincent Forrestor said,

” I want to make this clear. Many people think that native title only has to do with land. Native title is more than land, it is our heritage, our stories, our songs, our dances, our customs, our ceremonies, our language, our culture. In short, native title is our life.”

I was one of the many and now it was clear to me that treaties, agreements and other deals negotiated by non – indigenous ones are nothing short of bargaining for the spiritual, mental, emotional and physical survival of Aboriginal people. The dispossessed must bargain within the framework of the Invaders’ Law. It was only recently our courts admitted that when the invaders arrived there were humans here and that these humans had an intricate relationship with the land. The lie of terra nullius was corrected with the Mabo judgement. Now, a government that has big business interests at heart is trying to extinguish native title.

As I was walking out of the foyer I saw a poster of a man on a camel with a dialogue balloon saying, “Come camel riding in the Heart of Australia.” I remembered the little known history of the Afghani camel drivers who were especially invited to migrate to Australia about one hundred years ago. Their special skills were the husbanding of camels for use in Central Australia. Some returned to Afghanistan, some stayed and married Aboriginal women. The Islamic mosque in Alice Springs bears witness to the descendants of these Afghani camel masters. This brought to mind the Afghani writer, Idries Shah. In his introduction to the book, “The World of the Sufi”, by Ahmed Abdulla, Idries Shah mentions a story about Dhul’l-Nun the Egyptian and “The Pointing Finger Teaching System”.

In the surrounding lands, it was believed that a certain statue pointed to where hidden “treasure” lay buried. People from all over came to search, digging holes in areas indicated by the pointing finger of the statue. No one had found any “treasure” but still they searched heading further towards the horizon. One day, Dhul’l – Nun sat and watched the statue from sunrise to sunset. Then, on one particular day at one particular time, dug where the shadow of the finger fell, and discovered the treasure of ancient knowledge.

We need to turn around and not look at where the finger is pointing but to where its shadow falls. The finger points to never ending economic progress and development, it points to a future where the rich will only get richer at the expense of the poor. The shadow falls on native title. And the time is now. The Tjukurrpa – Dreamtime stories are the longest continuous religious beliefs documented anywhere in the world. (Josephine Flood, Archeology of the Dreamtime, Sydney and London, William Collins, 1983) Do we value the hidden treasure of the oldest living continuous culture on the planet? Do we recognise the “treasure” or do we filter out everything that requires some heart, some conscience? A natural sense of justice should spark a little recognition of the treasure in the finger’s shadow. The sense of a fair go cannot allow the extinguishment of native title.

While waiting for the bus to take us to Alice Springs High School, where most of the presentations were being held, I thought about the next few days. These few days will be an opportunity to step outside the routine of my ordinary life. Firstly, there will be four days of conferencing and then a few days of touring the Centre with some friends who are also LERNing.The fact is that just being in a different location had already disrupted my habitual comfort zone. To make the most of these days I would have to make an effort to turn inwards, so that the momentum of being in a different location and doing different things wouldn’t be wasted. The momentum, I hazarded a guess, is an energy or state of awareness that could loosely be called “holiday consciousness”. This turning inwards has nothing to do with solipsistic analysis and the chattering monkey mind trying to guess and to strategise the next moment. It is more the effort to intentionally steer one’s attention to other parts of one self normally unconscious. We may call it the subliminal underground of our being, the shadow, what we in the industrially developed world call only “feelings” and “sensations”.

It has been suggested that the human notion and definition of self has been through major shifts since the beginning of human consciousness (Julian Jaynes, “The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind”, Boston, Houghton Miffen, 1977 ). The closest to us historically, that may demonstrate this shift, is said to have occurred in Homer’s Greece.
According to this view, in Homer’s day, the people did not have the same sense of self as we may have. Their inner psychological organisation was different to what we take for granted. The voice of the mind was somehow perceived as a “god” speaking from outside themselves. It didn’t take too long before people started sussing out that there were a lot of “gods” running around in the temples and in the marketplaces saying contradictory things about how things were, that they saw the untruth of their “godhood”. Gradually this voice of the “gods” became established in the sense of self we call “ego”. What was there before the voice? Who and what was Ulysses’s “sense of self” on his Odyssey?

Have we in the dying years of the Industrial Age, come to a cultural cul-de-sac? Somehow, we have alienated ourselves from not only each other but also the common ground of experience – nature, the Earth. Is it time for another definition and sense of self, another way of knowing, one that acknowledges something other than the sovereign rights of the mechanistic, rational, technocratic and anti – spiritual mindset of the “Western” sense of self?

Edward de Bono in his “I Am Right, You Are Wrong”, thinks that this is the case. He suggests that a renaissance of thought and language patterns is needed so that humanity doesn’t self destruct. He proposes turning away from the “table top logic” of the traditional “Western” mindset in favour of developing a way of knowing that is based on perception. De Bono explains that recent developments in the understanding of self-organising systems and ideas from information theory, have given indications as to how the neural processes of the brain perform the activity of perception. Perception operates in nerve networks like a feature of a self-organising biological system, a living entity. Let’s call information that comes through our senses impressions. These impressions fall on the inner landscape of our mind like rain. The rain on the mind organises itself into tributaries, rivulets and streams of temporarily stable patterns. These patterns can subsequently flow into new sequences and patterns. According to de Bono, the perceptual mode of thinking encourages the mind to form multiple branching flow patterns; the sensory information is not boxed in by fixed linguistic concepts, generalities, and logic. Perceptual thought patterns follow the natural behaviour of neural networks; our present mode only plays back a recording of words and concepts provided by a preestablished cultural mindset.

Courtney Cazden during her paper on Ganma Space spoke of the necessity of getting rid of the margin and centre metaphor. This metaphor was based on the myth of terra nullius of students’ minds and being. Courtney told us that while she and Mary Kalantzis were flying to some school in the Northern Territory they noticed water holes that had fresh and salt water tributaries and other smaller rivulets all feeding the main space of the water hole. This, they found out was known as a ganma. The ganma looks like localised swirling spirals from the air. Courtney said that the mingling of brown, fresh and salt water in this space was analogous to the culturally diverse classroom. And in light of the process of perception is an apt image of the inner subjective world, our mind, our being.

The multicultural classroom as a Ganma Space, this metaphor rather than create separate marginalised groups besides the mainstream, recognises the primacy of all the diverse groups’ backgrounds and experiences. There is no one central dominant culture enforcing a mainstream reality. There is an influx of different cultures, different literacies, different world views, a swirling waterhole, a turning of bracken water whose salt has not lost its savour. A living Ganma Space.
Let’s go one step further and consider that in the industrially developed world there is the primacy of the head, (some localise it to the left hemisphere of the brain) and all the other ways of being and cognition – feelings, sensations and intuition have been marginalised. What do we have if we apply the ganma metaphor to our own inner world? In this ganma, head, heart, body and spirit all contribute equally, but differently, to our sense of the real. These parts of ourselves may all be cognitive in nature, they may be different tributaries of knowing, different source data. Ganma Space taken as psychological space, the internal world of our experience, would allow for the possibility to connect our known and unknown parts of ourselves. This opens the opportunity to connect with others by being able to include more of the “other” in one’s awareness.
Could the perceptual mode of thinking be a ganma way of knowing?

The taste I seek is a taste of being – not in the philosophical sense – a point of view to be debated, but rather an experience, an immersion through the background/underground of one’s chattering monkey mind – into the moment. We’ve seen that working from only a part of ourselves doesn’t work. The problems confronting all of us in this time of planetary transition are whole systems oriented. Now we see through Chaos theory, that a butterfly fluttering her wings in South Africa has global consequences. And when it comes to the ecological state of the Earth and the widening gap between the rich and poor across the planet, it is obvious that whole, global issues require an effort and a response that is from the whole of ourselves, the ganma of ourselves.

I decided to attend the presentation, “One Step Ahead: Aboriginal Perspectives on Management Education” by Evelyn Schaber and Second Year Management Training Program Students (Institute for Aboriginal Development, Alice Springs). As the classroom became full, with little standing room available, I was handed a printed page depicting in diagrammatic form Tjukurrpa and its sacred relationship with the people and the land. I was particularly taken by the fact that the primary relationship is a triad, a trinity.This trinity is reflected in Christianity, Hinduism, Taoism, Islam, Buddhism and other indigenous traditions. Joseph Campbell in his “The Hero With a Thousand Faces” and Mircea Eliade in his studies of religions and shamanistic traditions of the world point out other common features of invisible landscapes scattered across all cultures of the planet. So, what’s going on? What is this numerical coincidence that crystallises as a triad across and within all sacred traditions? Rather than be surprised by finding this fundamental triadic relationship within the sacred world view of the original people, I felt a kind of confirmation linked to feelings that arose during the Opening Ceremony.

After a few minutes, Evelyn introduced herself and the students beside her, Sherana, Patricia, Maxine, Cynthia and Sophie. She began by outlining the differences in the indigenous way of perceiving and knowing to the Western methodologies. She said, “It is not the knowledge that counts but how the knowledge is taught. Students need to know where the knowledge comes from and this must be put into political/ideological perspectives.” Evelyn explained that this entails the recognition of the narrative form, the story and the song as a valid means of conveying information and knowledge. Storytelling gives shape to knowledge and by having a whole form, bits of data and information find their meaningful place within the narrative. Evelyn compared the Western method of knowing to that of just focussing on a chorus and then a verse analysing each line of a song without knowing or listening to the whole song. “A song is more than the sum total of its parts. Our mob need to know the song, and hold the whole picture because education is political, education is an institution of the dominant culture. We need to be able to read where the dominant culture – ‘they’ – are coming from both politically and ideologically. That’s what is meant by having to be one step ahead.”

Martin Nakata, (University of South Australia) said at a later paper, Indigenous Perspectives on Multiliteracies , “Indigenous people must articulate their position, which has been historically constructed as the “other” and recognise the primacy of the indigenous perspective.” Martin also emphasised the importance of being taught by indigenous people, that what they had to say had as much verity as the dominant culture’s institutionalised knowledge. I was hearing that the indigenous way of knowing is holistic and the focus is on the whole song, the whole story. Martin was saying that there was an epistemological imperialism implicit in the way that research is conducted in “Western” institutions. I was hearing that an epistemology based on indigenous perspectives has as much ontological status as the positivistic technoscience paradigm of the “West”.

It just crossed my mind that the Greek word nomos, normally translated as law, as in eco-nomy, astro-nomy etc. can also be interpreted as melody or song. Eco – melody and astro – melody would give a different methodological approach to eco-law and astro-law, economy and astronomy. And who’s to say that the means of material exchange in traditional indigenous cultures is not more of an eco – melody than an economy? Perhaps the First Boat People and those who wish to take away native title didn’t and don’t wish to hear the songs of the original people, because their white noise mindset makes them tone deaf.

After Evelyn’s introduction and overview, each student began telling their individual stories of their personal experiences of formal education. I was witnessing a continuation of the welcoming ceremony and songs, this time in English, in a classroom. As each student told their story, of how they came to be doing the program and the various obstacles that were in their way to learning, I became aware of a soft uneasiness, a gentle tension in the air. As each student spoke in turn, I noticed in their bearing a vulnerability, an openness, an uncertain dropping of the guard. Their stories exposed their humanness, their heart. The how was more powerful than the what. The vulnerability and the innocence of that vulnerability began to resonate with a part of myself that could only respond in eyes welling up with tears. I told myself, “Big boys don’t cry in conferences….keep your act together….don’t make a fool of yourself….” The law and the wall of my persona, my sense of self, was being demolished by the truth of their song – stories. The tears trickled and I slowly turned my head to see all of the people standing behind me also crying. Indeed, by the time the last student had told us her story, I noticed that everybody in the class room felt the same way. Such openness, such vulnerability, such trust – such courage. Warriors of the Heart. The students’ eyes revealed the suffering and the strength that came through their own personal transformation. The sharing of their stories with us was a part of this transformative process and a political act. Smiles like chunks of sun beamed across their faces as we applauded and wept at the same time.

In my ordinary life, working as an educator, I am predominantly in my head and this experience gave me the opportunity to make a shift. I have nothing against heads, it’s just that for most of us in the developed world, that’s all that’s in operation. Our education is an initiation into the rationalist world view. This perspective lifts the intellect, the head, to a detached point of view that sees everything as if it is on the outside. It is called “objectivity”. When we teach our students literature, from this perspective, we tell them, “This story was written by someone, who was influenced by someone who was born somewhere”. Students learn facts, objective things that are apparently verifiable by reference to other someones who have written about the story or the author. The more one is initiated into the realm of the written word, and now also into the electrographic realm of cyber space, the less the realm of one’s own experience counts for anything in the classroom. Students learn facts about the story or the poem rather than the stories and the poems themselves. They learn that these facts are true because they are emotionless, they are detached from personal experience and work through the medium of the written word. Our classrooms devalue the spoken/oral tradition and value the written word. Our classrooms through our system’s methodologies enforce a monoliterate consensus reality.This reality is taught and is seen to be more valid than other ways of knowing, of communicating and of researching. In this classroom at Alice Springs High School, Evelyn’s students found a way to bridge the realm of the head with the realm of the heart through telling their stories.

I learned that I truly need to learn how to learn.

Perhaps this was heart knowledge – a grammar of the heart. We were in – formed through a literacy that was independent of our permission. The in – forming by passed our heads and touched our feelings. The soft uneasiness and the gentle tension in the air of the classroom transformed into a scent of the true. The ambience born from this exchange points to hope of true reconciliation – a sharing of a common ground – between the original ones and the rest of us, some place in the Heart of Australia. As Evelyn said, “We as educators have to confront and transform the realities of power in the classroom, and assist students to leave the baggage of 200 years of prejudice and discrimination at the door.”

This is what happened during the students’ presentation – intentionally or not, they directed our attention to include another part of ourselves. We had to acknowledge that there was more to each of us than meets the eye. And this more belonged to all of us in common. Ganma within, ganma without – turning, turning – ganma without, ganma within.

Is the phrase “language of the heart” just a metaphor? Do indigenous sacred world views point to a real place inaccessible to the chattering rational mind (with or without a PhD), but accessible to the intelligence of the heart? Does reflexive practice, with an intention to include more of one’s self than just the head, allow for the entry of compassion? By doing this as educators, could we be assisting in creating textual bridges through firstly becoming human bridges? Are we talking about the politics of consciousness and the need to question the root assumptions of “Western” techno – rationalism? Do these assumptions, these desacralised paradigms of reality only make it possible to see a sacred site as a potential dollar making or military site? Was Kevin Bates right when he said that the Aboriginal people have been here since the beginning of time?

The act of turning inwards and acknowledging the ganma of one’s being is a political act of consciousness. This act may only be for a fleeting moment but it may have long term consequences in the classroom and the community. How does one move far enough away from the chattering rational mind, “table top logic” to include the stirring of feelings and sensations, without in any way losing the attention required to participate in events around one? Who is moving away, and where is this away? Who am I? Why am I here? These questions, if I can keep alive their intent, may open doors to other literacies that resonate through different cognitive frameworks underpin the creation of other worlds. These questions, this search for inclusion in the whole by becoming more whole may be the first letters of an unknown alphabet within my own being.

At the end of a day’s attending papers I decided to go on a guided tour of a sacred site. The promotional poster had this to say :

“Native Title Rights, Educational Rights” – A Time Line Presentation,
presented by Vincent Forrester.
Experience a Tour to Kyunba (Native Pine Gap)
– sacred site – 20 kms south of Alice Springs.
Institute for Aboriginal Development, Alice Springs.While driving to our destination, our guide Vincent Forrester, called out the names of the surrounding hills, rocks and dirt and told us the stories of their birth. In this named landscape I was an alien. The naming stories revealed an invisible landscape that is visible to Vincent and his people. As we got off the mini – bus, Vincent said, “Welcome to my country”. Was I really in his country? Just because I was physically there, standing on the dirt, didn’t necessarily mean I was inhabiting the same sense of place.

The sense of country that gives birth to the Tjukurrpa – Dreamtime stories must be completely different to that which just measures acres of dirt. Somehow I was locked out of a sense of country and a way of knowing that Big Bill Neidjie, a Kakadu Aborigine refers to:

“I feel it with my body, with my blood. Feeling all these trees, all this country…when the wind blows you can feel it. You can look, but feeling…that put you out there in open space.” (Quoted in James Lowan, “Mysteries of the Dreaming” )

As the sun was setting, we walked following Vincent, he pointing out the various plants that had medicinal and other uses, we in silent curiosity and wonder. He showed us the places where adolescent males had their initiation rites. There were rock carvings and paintings at one ceremonial spot that seemed to have grown from out of the rock assisted by human hands. Vincent told us that some visitor had chipped off and stolen a big section of the painting/carving. It left a sharp straight line where it was separated from the greater stone and a large hole. No doubt, the missing stolen piece was going to be placed on a mantle shelf as a decorative item probably besides some bric – a – brac. Turning, he pointed his finger towards some low lying hills where the women had their own initiation ceremonies and rites. Ahead of us, about five minutes walk away, was the sacred centre of this land. We were not allowed to go there.

As we were returning to the mini-bus, the red colours of the twilight and the trees’ silhouettes shimmering in the breeze made me feel as in a dream. Pointing to a thin line, a wire fence nearby, Vincent said, “Our next door neighbour, over this fence, is Bill Clinton. In the 1960s, Prime Minister Harold Holt gave this land to the President of the USA. He didn’t talk to us, he didn’t ask us and he didn’t charge the USA any money. He just gave our land to President LBJ. This place over the wire fence is Pine Gap, a military site, where not even white Australians are allowed to visit.”

By now it was dark, with only the head lights of the bus providing some illumination. Just as he was about to climb on the bus, Vincent paused. There was silence for a few seconds as we waited. With a slight quiver in his voice, he said,

“I am asking you educators, you teachers to do something. We could sell land worth seven and a half million dollars to Woolworths for them to build their shop in Alice Springs – but there’s none of our children working there. Our kids are leaving school in year 8 and don’t return. You, you people who are the educators must do something.”

We boarded the bus and as I looked through the bus window I noticed the stars and the pattern we call the Southern Cross. Thoughts and feelings were stirring inside of me. Vincent was pleading with us to find a way to make education accessible to his people. He wanted his people to be initiated into the realm of literacy that confers power in the “Western” sense. Pine Gap – that “secret” electronic spy installation for the military purposes of Pan Americana, was just over the fence from a sacred Aboriginal site. He wanted his people to be able to straddle two realms – that of the Tjukurrpa, a sacred perspective and that of the “West”. The ability to do this is dependent on native title rights and educational rights for the original people of this country. The ability to straddle the two realms, the two world views, may also be essential for us to ensure the survival of all of us and the planet.

The Pine Gap military site is part of the electrographic world that now envelopes the globe. This electrographic world has connected all continents and carries data on every square inch of the earth’s surface traced by geostationary satellites. Information from the furthest reaches of the solar system and further out through Hubble’s eye, swirls into it. We are now immersed in an electrographic mist of data. Over the next 20 years or so, the mist will become rain, and this rain may become a flood of data. Or, it may become a global informational ganma. It all depends on us and the new neural networks, modelled on the human brain, that are now being developed.
The current digital infotronic revolution could have an impact on humans to rival the impact that the arrival of language had on the dawn humans. It is possible that the 40 year period between 1980 (the arrival of the Personal Computer) and 2020 may be seen in hundreds of years time, as one of the greatest turning points in human history. This revolution is much larger and faster than previous transitions like the change from an Agrarian Age to the Industrial Age. Whereas before, transitions occurred in specific places and gradually spread across the globe, the current revolution in technology is being felt globally and almost instantaneously. Through the coming Digital Age a global culture is emerging.

What must it have felt like about five hundred years ago when the very first book was published on a printing press? For one thing, Gutenberg probably didn’t foresee that literacy skills would be needed by everyone. Today it is seen as a fundamental human right. Five hundred years ago only a certain elite, members of the church and some others, had access to books which had been hand copied one by one by monks. They were the only ones who could read and write. Gutenberg democratised the need for literacy. In the new world order of the Digital Age many people may not be able to access information technology and may not have the necessary electrographic literacy. This means that the poorest will become even poorer without access to this technology.

Questions and concerns like these were fluttering around in my head when I first met Johan Cedergren at the Dingo Cafe, Alice Springs. Johan, a teacher from Rodengymnasium Upper Secondary School, Sweden came to present his paper, “Baltic Region Knowledge: An Interdisciplinary High School Course for Swedish and Russian Students”. This project is part of a long term program for re-establishing contacts between north western Russia and the new Baltic States. The internet is used extensively to network the students between the two countries.
I also had an interest in this new technology and my paper, “The Hunter Connection: Getting Ethnic Communities Online “ was on a rural strategy that the Multicultural Education Unit, Hunter Institute of Technology, Australia is implementing to address the local community’s communications needs.

Johan and I found that our concerns were similar. How do we ensure that this technology is accessible to all who need it? The small proportion of humanity who has access to this knowledge and technology also uses up most of the planet’s resources while the greater majority of humanity is undernourished and living in poverty. This small proportion of humanity, from previous experience, may build new virtual ivory towers far removed from the hoi polloi paralyzed by techno fear or by the lack of access to the technology. There is a need for groups that have been “marginalised as the other” to colonise Cyberia. The secular clergy of our small proportion must work to ensure that all have access.

Whatever the answers to these issues, the fact is that we are experiencing a fracturing of the idea of specific location in space. Telecommunications in all its diversity is bringing the globe to one’s home and one’s home to the globe. Video conferencing in virtual rooms with participants from all over the world are a reality now. I cut and pasted this information about the Tanami Project from some email message I received in 1996:

VIDEOCONFERENCING IN THE OUTBACKSince 1993, Aborigine communities in Australia’s Northern Territory have
been using videoconferencing as the primary medium for personal and business communications among each other and other sites in Sydney, Darwin and Alice Springs. The Tanami Network, which uses PictureTel videoconferencing equipment, is favored over the telephone or radio because it can convey the extensive system of hand gestures used by aborigines while speaking. Most of the videoconferences held are personal or ceremonial in nature — paid for in large part by mineral royalties and community funds. Other aborigine videoconferencing networks include the Mungindi Project, which uses Cornell University’s CU-SeeMe software to link four remote schools.
(Technology Review Apr 96 p17)

This multimedia technology makes it possible to communicate Tjukurrpa information to community members whether three hundred kilometres or three thousand kilometres away. It is possible, with the right intent, to straddle both “Western” and indigenous perspectives if the technology is used appropriately and the resources accessible.

Both Johan and I decided to go and see this project. Johan went on a bus with a group of other LERNers to Yuendumu about three hundred kilometres from Alice Springs on the edge of the Tanami Desert. I went with another group to Alice Springs. When we became connected, the information signals were beamed to Sydney then bounced off from a satellite to Alice Springs and Yuendumu. It was a strange sensation communicating with this technology, there was a slight adjustment required in one’s sense of place. The next day in the foyer of the Araluen Arts Centre, Johan asked me to have a look at his laptop computer. On the screen was a picture of myself taken from the video screen at Yuendumu. Unknown to me, Johan took a picture of me “hosting” on his digital camera. He showed me other pictures he took of the conference. These pictures I downloaded from his website in Sweden when I returned home to Morpeth, NSW.

So, digital images taken from an electrographic encounter in the centre of Australia are accessible to anyone, anywhere in the world with the appropriate technology. Not only images but also sound and text.The possibilities of using this technology to enhance communications between all of us is immense. The tributaries of information are now global and the challenge for us, as educators, is to ensure that all have access.

Those who do have access to the infotronic labyrinth with walls of World Wide Webs, do we need a thread like Theseus received from Ariadne to find our way to the centre and back? Who is the monster at the centre and what is the thread? Unlike geographical Siberia, Cyberia resides in non-Euclidean space where North, South, East and West do not exist. So, where is the centre of the maze? A computer program is a set of linear binary instructions. There are as yet no computer based devices which can handle patterns. Stories, as information devices, handle and convey patterns of knowledge.

Perhaps the thread we seek is our own story making capacity.

The four days came to an end too quickly. The Closing Ceremony was performed by Pitjantjatjara traditional dancers. Faces of people I had met, the garden chats, the painting of the Conference Mural by LERNers, images of the management students, the Conference Dinner when we let our guards down and saw each other in motion, floated through my mind during the asymmetrical pauses of the dancers. A performance by a group of young local people followed giving the other half of the Closing Ceremony. The emerging global culture and its expression were clearly seen in the dancing. Dancing to contemporary hip hop music with moves informed by their aboriginal inheritance, the group expressed movements that were both uniquely local and global at the same time. Ganma dancing?

The next day I met up with my touring companions to pick up the hire car. All of us were born in different countries and had made Australia our home. Alejandra Martinez from Chile, Chandrima Mukerjee from India, Jenny Howard from Borneo, Beatrice Espenez- Stotz from Uruguay and myself from Greece. Our car was a little ganma space on four wheels, touring the centre of Australia with five dinkum Aussies. Alejandra, was the holy of holies – a mother to be, with only three months to go before the birth of her baby. I felt that her presence would ensure a safe passage for us all. Once we picked up the car I took some tapes out of my bag which would become some of the soundtrack of the trip. The first song we listened to as we were leaving Alice Springs was “Two Way Dreamtime” by Directions in Groove (DIG). We played this song often at different points on our journey :

Two Way Dreamtime

Dreamtime on a leyline, forty thousand years is a long, long
Dreamtime on a songline, forty thousand years is a long, long
Dreamtime on a leyline, forty thousand years is a long, long
Dreamtime on a songline, forty thousand years is a long, long time.

Welcome to the alien nation, and this society based on invasion
where we don’t know soul from a hole in the ground.
Two hundred years of beating around the bush, digging money out boom or bust, well, ashes to ashes dust to dust…

It’s all those people that you buy and sell, millions of shares in a living hell. You’ve got a house and a pool and a Porsche and a beeper, but are you just making life cheaper, you’re gonna have to dig a little bit deeper, the price of admission is so much steeper.
You pay with your dreams, so wake up sleeper.

Dreamtime on a songline, forty thousand years is a long, long time….

Welcome to the alien nation, but it’s not too late to change the equation.
Listen to the A-B-original people, the Earth is a church without a steeple, don’t look for heaven in a father above, it’s here on the ground in a family of love and deeper respect for each other, brothers and sisters with the one Earth for mother.

Now life is a state of constant creation and what we need is inspiration.
There’s more to me than meets the eye, so let’s find the spirit that let’s us try, to make a treaty with the past or we’re doomed to a future that cannot last. Heal the wounds, confess our crimes, free at last in a two way dreamtime….

Directions in Groove

The first place we visited was Stanley’s Chasm, a huge gap at the tail end of the McDonnell Ranges. We walked up and through a stony path, past desert palms, mulga, a plant with flowers smelling like delicate lavender. We saw a couple of rock wallabies scurry up shear vertical rock faces. We entered the chasm and heard frogs croaking. The rain had brought the mating calls of the frogs that reverberated through the chasm. As we walked out I had the distinct feeling of having emerged with realigned impressions. The surrounding rocks and trees vibrated invisibly and silently. Ally laid on her back across a flat smooth striated rock. Her belly, full of new life made a silhouette just left of Stanley Chasm’s opening . Birds became audible. Ally spoke to Beatrice in Spanish. I asked them what they were talking about. They said that they both felt as if they had just emerged from a womb. The words Mother : Matrix : Matter rose to the surface of my mind.

Space is what you first notice, once you’ve travelled in Central Australia a few hundred kilometres on no speed limit roads. The massive road trains, when they appeared, shuddered a reminder of how small you and your car really are. The expanse of sky and the horizon of the world’s most sparsely populated lands (apart from Antarctica) made me feel my smallness. Our first stop for the night was at King’s Canyon.

Late at night I walked along an elevated metal path that was built to conserve the local environment. I was going to view the profile of King’s Canyon against the night sky. The end of the path was about half a kilometre away from the cabins. While walking down the metallic path, my footsteps echoed through the night space. Finally I stood at the end of the “Western” metallic thread. I turned towards the cool breeze blowing through the native land. How far had this wind travelled to get here – the Centre of Australia? Across hundreds, perhaps thousands of kilometres of ground that was almost empty of people. I looked at the Milky Way splashing across the dome of my mind, streaks of falling stars crossed above King’s Canyon. All the while I felt the Southern Cross watching over us.

The next day after seeing and walking around King’s Canyon we headed further south to Uluru and Katajuta. Twenty five years ago when I arrived at Erldunda, the turn off to Ayer’s Rock and the Olgas, I couldn’t take the turn and went direct to Adelaide. This time I was ready.

On the way to Uluru we passed Atila (Mount Conner) whose flat table top contrasted with our post card expectations of Uluru’s and Katajuta’s roundness. We were only about twenty kilometres from Uluru when we passed an old panel van crowded with local Aboriginal men, women and children, waving to us. Getting closer to Uluru, the following refrain came from the car’s radio:

What if God was one of us,
just a slob like one of us,
just a stranger on the bus
trying to make his way home…..In the near distance we caught a glimpse of Uluru, the largest Rock on Earth, right in the Centre of Australia, now in front of us. With many other vehicles we parked at the specified viewing area. We had arrived at the most opportune time to witness the almost miraculous changes in colour of Uluru as the sun sets. Uluru turned our sight away from the west where the sun was setting, towards the Red Centre. The shifting reds of the Rock vibrated against an eastern blue sky, the shadows of mulgas nearby almost merged with the red dirt.

The next day we visited Uluru where we spent some time at the Cultural Centre. Along the inner walls of the Centre, a Dreamtime story written in English had Aboriginal paintings as iconic reflections. The version below of the same Kuniya story comes from “Uluru, an Aboriginal History of Ayers Rock” by Robert Layton.

The Kuniya story (The Pythons)The Kuniya converged on Uluru from three directions. One group came westward from Waltanta (the present site of Erldunda homestead), and Paku-paku; another came south through Wilpiya (Wilhia Well); and a third, northwards, from the area of Yunanpa (Mitchell’s Knob). One of the Kuniya women carried her eggs on her head, using a manguri (grass head-pad) to cushion them. She buried these eggs at the eastern end of Uluru. While they were camped at Uluru, the Kuniya were attacked by a party of Liru (poisonous snake) warriors. The Liru had journeyed along the southern flank of the Petermann Ranges from beyond Wangkari (Gills Pinnacle).

At Alyurungu, on the southwest face of Uluru, are pock marks in the rock, the scars left by the warriors’ spears; two black-stained watercourses are the transformed bodies of two Liru. The fight centred on Mutitjulu (Maggie’s Spring). Here a Kuniya woman fought using her wana; her features are preserved in the eastern face of the gorge. The features of the Liru warrior she attacked can be seen in the western face, where his eye, head wounds (transformed into vertical cracks), and severed nose form part of the cliff.

Above Mutitjulu is Uluru rock hole. This is the home of a Kuniya who releases the water into Mutitjulu. If the flow stops during drought, the snake can be dislodged by standing at Mutitjulu and calling ‘Kuka! Kuka! Kuka!’ (Meat! Meat! Meal!). The journey to Uluru and lhe Liru snakes’ attack are described in the public song cycle recording the Kuniya story.

Almost half way along the Cultural Centre’s inner wall, a large video screen was showing the same traditional dancers that had performed the Closing Ceremony at Araluen Arts Centre. An electrographic video echo in Uluru.

When we approached Uluru none of us could envisage climbing the Rock. The original people of this land plead with tourists at the Cultural Centre not to climb Uluru. Even at the site where a chain railing extended up a ridge began its climb, there was a sign with a Red Cross stating that the local people would strongly prefer people not to climb Uluru because it was against their religious beliefs. Again, it was a request. What do fellow humans have to do to at least elicit some semblance of respect for their beliefs?

I am reminded of the Sufi saying: “When a thief sees a saint, all he sees is his pocket.” In this context could it be, “When a fool sees a sacred site, all he sees is a ladder of chains.” ?

On the way back to Alice Springs we decided to stay the night at Erldunda and make an early start the next morning. Once we got to the turn off I rang my family and found out that a friend had died the night before. Returning to our table outside the roadhouse, in shock over the news, I wept. My travelling companions brought coffee and sat with me. Their company was a comfort.

A group of about six Aboriginal men were dropped off a utility truck a few metres away from us, while I was lighting a cigarette. Speaking their native language they sat and stood a few tables away from us. One of them, who was standing, caught my eye and looked at me for as long as it takes to inhale and exhale two complete breaths. He walked over to our table and it was clear by the way he asked for a cigarette that English was his second language. I gave him the pack and the coffee with the news of Kevin Bates’ passing away resonating through my heart. He sat with us for a short time. An echo from twenty five years ago was heard at Erldunda that night. Twenty five years before, the old man had given me milk, biscuits and shelter somewhere near here. Twenty five years later I had given in return, acquired habits. Somehow, it didn’t feel it was an equal exchange. Somehow, I felt that I was still in debt.

After a while the utility truck returned to pick the men up. As they left I wondered at the coincidence of place, time and events. I meandered to my cabin, noting that the only other time I slept in Erldunda was in a humpy by the side of this road. Having said good night to my companions, I sat outside trying to locate the Southern Cross. I noticed a swarm of fireflies swirling to my right near a gigantic eucalyptus tree. I stared at the fireflies remembering that they are sometimes a symbol of the soul’s ongoing life after death.
Ally bought “Tribal Voice” by Yothu Yindi as soon as we arrived at Alice Springs. She wanted to ensure that the last musical sounds we listened to as we drove our hire car to the airport came from this part of Australia. Driving to the airport we heard the song :

TreatyWell I heard it on the radio – And I saw it on the television – Back in 1988 – all those talking politicians – Words are easy, words are cheap – Much cheaper than our priceless land – But promises can disappear – Just like writing in the sand – Treaty Yeh Treaty Now Treaty Yeh Treaty Now – Nhima Djat’pangarri nhima walangwalang – Nhe Djat’payatpa nhima gaya nhe – Matjini Yakarray – Nhe Djat’pa nhe walang – Gumarrt Jararrk Gutjuk – This land was never given up – This land was never bought and sold – The planting of the Union Jack – Never changed our law at all – Now two rivers run their course – Separated for so long – I’m dreaming of a brighter day – When the waters will be one – Treaty Yeh Treaty Now Treaty Yeh Treaty Now Treaty Yeh Treaty Now Treaty Yeh Treaty Now – Nehma Gayakaya nhe gayanhe matjini walangwalang nhe ya – Nhima djatpa nhe walang – Gumurrtjararrk Yawirnny – Nhe gaya nhe matjini – Gaya nhe matjini – Gaya gaya nhe gaya nhe – Matjini walangwalang – Nhema djat’pa nhe walang – Nhe gumurrtjarrk nhe ya – Promises – Disappear – Priceless land – Destiny – Well I heard it on the radio – And I saw it on the television – But promises can be broken – Just like writing in the sand – Treaty Yeh Treaty Now Treaty Yeh Treaty Now Treaty Yeh Treaty Now Treaty Yeh Treaty Now – Treaty Ma – Treaty Yeh – Treaty.

(M. Yunupingu / G Yunupingu / M Mununggurri / W Marika / S Kellaway / C Williams / P Kelly / P Garrett)

While flying over the Simpson Desert on the return journey, I thought about Gracelyn Smallwood’s paper where she compared the state of South Africa’s original people and Australia’s. She said,

“South Africa is striving for Truth and Reconciliation, not just Reconciliation without Truth. The truth is that over three quarters of the Aboriginal people have been murdered over the last two hundred years in Australia. In South Africa, the blacks during apartheid, kept their language and culture. In Australia there is a selective amnesia operating when it comes to the indigenous people. We need both Truth and Reconciliation.”

Perhaps one of the consequences of working towards Truth and Reconciliation may be Justice for the original people of this country.

I noticed that the land was getting greener and soon we were flying over the Great Dividing Range. Though I looked, I knew that I wouldn’t be able to spot the Three Sisters rock formation of the Blue Mountains. I was hoping that as we curved our landing onto Sydney Airport I’d catch a glimpse of what I and my two brothers called the Three Brothers. These were three twenty storey high Housing Commission flats that were built during the sixties across the street from my first home in Australia. Like many migrants of the fifties and sixties we lived in the cheap accommodation that was available those days in Redfern and other parts of inner city Sydney. Orienting my gaze from Sydney Harbour Bridge I tried to guess the approximate site of my first home here. The patterns on the ground below became angular and grid like, broken by the occasional patch and oval of green. I didn’t get a glimpse of the Three Brothers. Since the time of my childhood, many other sky scrapers were built and they were lost to me.

Botany Bay came into view as our plane was turning to land. As our plane looked like it was going to touch the water I felt Sydney, Eora, an edge metropolis of our ganma continent turn around the Red Centre, the rocks, hills, mulga, spinifex, red dirt and a few people in the Heart of Australia.

Published in Education Australia,1998

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Posted by stavr0s

Lost in Damascus, Syria….

June 17, 2010

A month after leaving Mount Athos in Greece (May, 2000) I arrived in Damascus, Syria. I left my bag in the hotel and found my way to the Jordan Embassy. I needed a visa to get across the border to Jordan and I arrived five minutes late. The embassy officer was adamant I had to return the next day before 11.00AM. I was frustrated and irritated but I decided rather than give vent to my negativity I’d just walk in any direction to see what happened.

I walked streets with only Arabic signs and scripts.

My travel guide book gave the street names in English only. I walked by houses with concrete veneers and gardens on terraces, vines entwining telephone polls and wires across a lane making an arch of leaves, palm trees swaying in the dry breeze rooted in concrete pavements, lurid red and blue posters of the latest film shows on billboards and walls. I kept walking sensing the Syrian sun on my face and discovering I had no marker, no point of direction back to my hotel.

I was lost in the streets of Damascus.

There were flashes of deja vu, definite sensations and feelings I had been there before – a familiarity on the tip of the tongue. Maybe I was here in a previous life. I was lost in a place that felt like a long forgotten home. My stomach rumbled and I saw a restaurant with vats and tables outside on the street. I went in and found a seat at a table with four other men, one much older sat beside me. He began speaking to me in Arabic. When I replied, “Yunan, English” meaning Greek or English he spoke even louder so that others from tables nearby turned their heads towards us. I repeated, “La (no) Arabic – Yunan (Greek), English” pointing to my mouth. The old man had a short white beard that seemed to brighten when he shook his head. The others around our table stared at me.

I said, “I’m Australian – Australos – English or Greek – Yunan.”

A few tables away a man with a black moustache called out, “You from Australia?”

I said, “Yes”.

“Then why this?” He pointed to his face and drew a circle around it in the air and then pointed at me. Shrugging his shoulders he extended his arms in front of him.

He was saying in hand talk, “How come you look Syrian but claim to be Australian?”

I said, cradling an imaginary baby in my arms, “Baba, Yunanistan,” then I made my fingers walk in the air saying, “Australia.” I went to Australia as a baby from Greece. The others in the restaurant, even the owner were watching this exchange. They smiled and the man who asked the questions said, “Hey, I come and be with you.”

He was in his late thirties, slim with a certain earnestness about him as he walked towards my table. He squeezed between the two men sitting opposite me. By now his presence had made my table invisible again.

He said, “You from Australia? I know a little English.” I told him about my trip from Greece via Turkey, to Egypt and that I’d be leaving very soon for Jordan.

He asked,

“Where are you going now?”

“The old souq (market). I have lost my way and stopped to eat here.”

“Ah, good. I’m going to a library and the souq is on the way. I will show you where to go.”

There was a certain radiance about him, as if there was a tiny grain of the sun burning in his chest. He nodded, “I understand much better in English than I speak.” Something in the way he said “understand” touched me.

For no apparent reason I said, “One of my wishes while travelling through your land is to meet someone who is wise in the way of the Sufi,” I paused and in the silence I added, “I visited Rumi’s tomb in Konya, Turkey, how I dearly wish to visit Ibn Arabi’s tomb in Syria.”

“You know Ibn Arabi?” he asked surprised, “you know of our saints?”

“Yes, only a very little. I have read about Ibn Arabi in English. What little I know of him has touched my heart. I wish to pay him my respects.”

He said, “Come, let’s go. I want to take you to a special place, a surprise place for you.”

There was this instant trust between us. As we walked under a concrete bridge near a busy intersection he said, “You’re not a tourist just going click, click, click with a camera. You know something of my culture. Islam?”

The way he said “Islam” prompted me to reply, “I’m a Christian and I believe that all religions speak of one truth but in different tongues and styles. I’m searching for truth and anywhere I can find it I value it.”

“I will take you to Ibn Arabi’s tomb.”

“What here in Damascus?”

“Yes, just around the corner. You must not speak. Just copy everything I do. You look Syrian, only your tongue gives you away.”

I wondered why I had to pretend to be Syrian and not speak when we arrived at the saint’s tomb. I figured that it was a very small price to pay – to be silent. We passed some men sitting on wooden boxes playing backgammon on a small table. One of the players smiled at me revealing a toothless mouth. The streets of Damascus are mostly narrow and crooked. Saint Paul lived on Straight Street near where we were. We turned a corner going down a narrow lane and finally arrived at a small door in a stone wall of a mosque. As we entered we climbed down some narrow stairs that lead to a silver cage enclosing a small tomb. It looked like a big beautiful bird cage on the floor.

Others already there were prostrating on their knees and lifting their torsos up while silently moving their lips to prayer. My friend indicated that I stay beside him and as he went down on his knees I copied his movements. I bowed and touched the floor near Ibn Arabi’s body. I was amazed that I was there in front of his tomb, a tomb that has been there for hundreds of years.

Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi (1165 – 1240) was at the centre of an extraordinary flourishing and cross fertilization of Jewish, Christian and Islamic thought in the Moorish culture of Andalusian Spain. He was a Spanish mystic who had a huge and subtle influence on both East and West. In his early childhood he was recognized and taught by two women saints, Yasmin of Marchena and Fatima of Cordoba. Dante’s “Divine Comedy” was influenced by Ibn Arabi’s work.

As I looked through the cage, the more I saw, the less I knew. Who am I? Why am I here? I smelt a delicate fragrance in the swirls of prayer around me. After about a quarter of an hour we arose and left. While climbing the stairs I took one final look at the small tomb of a great man. I felt my own smallness and my own limitations as a “man”. Somehow, even though his body had lay there for so long I felt something emanating from the space that contained Ibn Arabi’s remains. I wondered whether it was his own emanations that remained there or if the people who came to offer their respects and prayers left “soul stuff” that gradually accreted over the years so that one could feel a palpable presence in this small space. Maybe it was both and was it the same in other sacred places?

Mahmoud told me that it was Ibn Arabi’s special mission to scatter Sufi seeds onto diverse contemporary fields of learning accepted by the people so that they would come to recognise the One Love behind everything.

“Now, let us go to the special place I promised I will show you,” Mahmoud said with a grin.

“I thought Ibn Arabi’s tomb was the special place.”

“Yes, it is special and this other place is special in a different way. I won’t go to the library today, it can wait. I will spend time with you.”

I was curious as to what special place he had in mind. As we walked we mentioned various authors and books to each other and we were amazed that we recognised each other’s references. The theme was the search for truth and the miraculous. I was excited by the prospect of meeting a Damascus local who may have contact with people who understood the inner essence of Islam and who could sense or know the same essence in Christianity.

After a while he said, “You know that Christians, Moslems and Jews are cousins? Abraham was our common ancestor, our common source.”

We were at the large courtyard of the Omayyad Mosque. Mahmoud said,”It is interesting that this mosque was built on land that was sacred before Mohammed. It was used as a place of worship 3,000 years ago by the ancient Syrians. Then it was a pagan temple for Jupiter during the Roman era. Then it was… no, wait for the surprise.”

Omayyad Mosque, Damascus, Syria

We walked on beautiful geometric patterned tiles. These patterns were repeated on some of the façade and walls. The doors also had hand carved patterns that looked like they were lifted from crystal reflections. I felt as if I walked into a world of lattices, a net of lines, a web of relationships numerical in kind and geometric in shape. I took my shoes off and entered the main door. Inside was a cavernous space, Mahmoud pointed out a section of the wall with mosaic panels made of coloured and gilded glass. He told me that all the walls were decorated like this centuries ago. The prayer hall had a small domed shrine near where we stood.

Lost in Damascus Umayyad Mosque geometric

Omayyed Mosque

Approaching the shrine, Mahmoud said, “This is the surprise. The shrine contains St John the Baptist’s head and maybe his body!” Surrounding the shrine were Moslem people bowing and praying. I asked, ”Why the prayers for St John the Baptist? Why is his tomb here in a mosque?” Mahmoud delighted, said, ”Yes, I knew it would surprise you. This place of worship many centuries ago had divine services for both Christians and Moslems. The Christians worshipped in one half of the space and Moslems worshipped in the other half. Together Christians and Moslems worshipped under this same roof.”

I paid my respects to St John the Baptist, this time crossing myself the Greek Orthodox way. No one took exception to me for doing so and as we left I felt a real connection between our two faiths. Mahmoud explained to me that Jesus was a prophet and Mary his mother was revered in Islam. He told me that St John the Baptist was revered by Moslems as a saint. Mahmoud was right, this place was a special place and that it would surprise me. He invited me to his home which meant that we had to catch one of the many small service taxis (mini buses) that were everywhere on Damascus roads. Road rules didn’t seem to count here as our bus swerved in and out of lanes with no indication and turned corners without slowing down. While our bodies moved this way and that in concert with the bus I was curious as to how Mahmoud would take my experience at Rumi’s tomb in Konya, Turkey.

I said, “While I was visiting Rumi’s tomb I felt that I could only pay my respects as an Orthodox Christian but could only do this in a hidden way. I couldn’t externally pray like the Moslems around because I’m not Moslem and at the same time I couldn’t pray as a Christian outwardly because I did not want to offend those around me. So I held my hands together in front of me and inwardly I imagined my right hand making the shape of a cross. In my faith, the thumb stands for the Father, the index for the Son and the next finger, the Holy Spirit – the Holy Trinity. My ring finger curled into my palm signifies the divine nature of Christ and the little finger is the human nature.” I showed him the tripod of fingertips and my curling fingers. I continued, “So, in a manner of speaking my hand reflects the whole of my faith. I move my right hand with the thumb and my first two fingers joined together. Firstly to my forehead, then to my belly, then to the right of my heart and then to the left of my heart – three times. I did this inwardly while silently chanting a prayer. Outwardly I was standing with my head bowed and hands together but inwardly I was actively praying in the Christian way. Tell me Mahmoud, did I do the right thing for Rumi?”

We jolted forward as the bus swerved around another corner. Mahmoud said, “My friend it is obvious to me that your intentions were pure. You were in pure heart and so whatever you do in such a state is pure. You can do what you will and it would not be wrong because of your state of mind and heart. So, you did the right thing.” He stopped and looked at me eye ball to eye ball.

“By the way,” he said,”did you know that Sufis, the People of the Path are also called esoteric Christians?”

“No,” I said, “What of our cousins the Jews?”

“Rabbi Jesus is also revered by Jews in touch with the hidden stream.” He smiled and gently touched my hand, “You and I are seekers of truth and as such we are not caught in the literal meanings of scripture and sacred texts. It is these literal, fundamental meanings, dogmas that create misunderstanding between our religions and ways of being in the world.”

I couldn’t agree more but this didn’t mean that individual and unique differences that make up a particular set of beliefs were obliterated. No, it seems to me that seeking the essential truth behind the formal, literal truths was a way of freeing one self from narrow mindedness and the razor wire of fundamentalism. And I don’t just mean religious. To name a few – scientific, economic, political, psychological, philosophical, artistic ….in fact, name an activity and it can be done and thought of in a fundamentalist way.

Mahmoud lived in one of the many concrete and cement apartments in down town Damascus, right under the arc traced by missiles from Israel. He was very lucky he told me because he had a ground floor apartment with some earth for plants. A wooden door from the street set in a large wall was the entrance to his home.

He introduced me to his wife and two daughters, his father and mother and his brother as “Stavros from Australia”. His wife Jamil brought some tea in glass tumblers and sat next to me. She said, “Pleased to meet you and welcome. I want to show you a book. I am learning English.” I was touched by the effort she put in saying this to me in English.

We were sitting around a wooden table in the enclosed area behind the wall facing the street. Mahmoud pointed to a fountain and pool, the size of a bathtub on our right . He said,”I and my brother made this fountain.” It was made of cement with inlaid patterns of shells, coral and pebbles. The shape was more like a cumulus cloud than rigid lines of concrete blocks. The water spouted from a bowl in the centre while the spirals, circles, squares and triangles of the fountain’s container looked on with mosaic eyes. I walked over to it and admired the detail of their work.

Meanwhile Mahmoud’s father, mother and brother brought cucumbers, tomatoes, shallots, radishes, cheese, bread and boiled eggs to the table. Soon after, falafals, humous, fried eggplant, cinnamon beans and dips were added to the table. Everybody sat around the table with the young girls at one corner each. We each had a plate on which we placed what we wanted from the dishes before us. Everybody was interested in this stranger from the other side of the planet – Australia. In my shoulder bag I carried postcards of Australia to give to new friends. I pulled some out and passed them around – pictures of kangaroos, koalas, Sydney Opera House, Uluru and Sydney Harbour Bridge. Everybody recognised the kangaroos.

Jamil brought over a book on the English language. She was studying English on her own using this book and some tapes. Her husband Mahmoud helped when he could but he was not fluent in English either. She said,” Please, may I read and you tell me if sounds true? Please?” She read some dialogue between two people. One was asking for directions and the other answered. The only thing missing in her delivery was confidence.

As I sat there with this Syrian family I thought about philoxenia, “Friend of the Stranger” the Greek word for “hospitality” which in the original denotes something sacred and more open than “hospitality”. It is mentioned in Homer’s “The Odyssey” where Odysseus experienced philoxenia often in his travels. My new friends expressed philoxenia in such a way that it brought tears to my eyes. I was a stranger in their midst and they offered me friendship, food and comfort. A bond grew between us that had its strength in our common humanity and the fact that everyone is a stranger away from home. Mahmoud and his brother asked me what hotel I was staying at and then phoned for a taxi to take me there.

While waiting for the taxi Mahmoud said, “I want you to have this.” In his hand were some worry beads. I showed him the worry beads my uncle gave me in Greece. The Greek ones I had were more solid and heavier with round beads. Mahmoud’s were smaller and the beads were like long brown rice grains. We compared them.

He smiled, “Well you now have Syrian worries to keep your Greek ones company!”

Mahmoud and his brother rode with me to my hotel in the taxi. They would not allow me to pay for the fare. They just wanted to make sure that I was taken to the right place.

In Damascus, Syria, I found true philoxenia not xenophobia. Now I had a paper boat from the Holy Mountain and a set of worry beads from the Middle East to take with me back to Australia. When I returned to Australia I put these in a special bag where I kept other important things like hand made amulets, pellets of rose incense, a smooth stone from Dodona, crystals, a small wooden cross from Jerusalem, a tiny rock from Mt Sinai, a stone from an Aboriginal Elder in Australia and some holy oil from a small monastery of nuns near the birthplace of my father in Greece.

The bag, made of an old Turkish rug remnant was wrapped in a Palestinian keffiyeh from Bethlehem, along with the Chinese “Book of Changes” – the I Ching and Tarot cards. These four items were my psychic technology backup; just knowing they were there helped me on my journey to Nauru four years later. When we returned from Nauru the last item to be put into my special bag was the frayed remainder of the Southern Cross flag that flew on Eureka, the boat I sailed on. It was placed on top of the other things soon after we left South Bellona Reef on our way to Nauru.

My Spiritual Kit Bag with psychic technological backups, to be used in case of emergency sailing to Nauru!

A few days later I visited Palmyra, about 100 miles east of Damascus, near the border of Iraq. Palmyra has the best preserved Roman ruins in the world. The stone buildings all have a rose tint and you feel like you are entering a Roman city with rose tinted sunglasses on.

Here’s a picture or two of what I saw. Another time, another story.

Palmyra, Syria. That little taxi takes you everywhere.

19 Comments | consciousness, Damascus, sufi, travel, Uncategorized | Tagged: Andalusian Spain, damascus, Dante, Homer, I Ching, ibn arabi, Islam, Jews, Moorish culture, mount sinai, Muhyiddin Ibn Arabi, nauru, odyssey, Omayyad Mosque, Orthodox Christian, Rabbi Jesus, Rumi, Saint John the Baptist, Saint Paul, sufi, syria, Tarot, travel | Permalink
Posted by stavr0s

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A Special Locket/Talisman – an excerpt from a story I’m writing…

Chinatown, Honiara, Solomon Islands before the 2006 Fires.

A Night in the Heart of Australia

A Ganma Odyssey

Lost in Damascus, Syria….

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