Journeys and Star Gazing

The men in suits came first, followed by the bulldozers and trucks, their mechanical growls drowning out any protest from the condemned structures. Porta loos and cranes joined the procession, marking the relentless advance of progress. Each dawn witnessed the sacrificial dismantling of houses, shops, trees, and the remnants of a child’s forgotten doll. Important things reduced to scrap and dust.

Bulldozers, with their steel jaws and insatiable hunger, scraped the remains into chaotic piles of broken bricks, concrete slabs, shattered glass, and discarded newspapers. Dust, stirred by the relentless machines, ascended in a frenzied dance with the breeze. In that corner of Redfern, the air was thick with the debris of destruction, making every breath a challenge for those traversing Young Street.

For over three months, the denizens of Athena’s street side waged a daily war against the invading sand and dust, a ceaseless barrage from across the street onto their doorsteps. Wind, an uninvited guest, carried the sandy particles into homes, infiltrating narrow hallways. Improvised defenses, from old towels to tied-together clothes, lined the door cracks in a futile attempt to ward off the invading onslaught.

“Kosta, close it quickly. We don’t want a desert in our house,” Athena commanded as she opened the door, her voice a blend of resignation and defiance. Kosta, facing the growing rock piles, felt the wind blown sand’s prickling embrace against his face and arms. The hallway, a sanctuary turned battleground, resonated with the rhythmic tick, tick, tick of sand grains striking the closed door.

Further down the corridor, George, squatting before the Kriesler radio, issued a hushed command. “Ssshh! I’m looking for Greece.” The radio, a capricious oracle, emitted static, distant voices in tongues unknown. Amid the interference, a muffled sound emerged, giving way to the resonant chimes of a bouzouki. “Oppa! Ellada – Greece!” George stood, his silhouette adorned by speckled gray and black hair, tapping into the heartbeat of his homeland transmitted through the airwaves.

“Even in his singlet, without a shirt, he looks fully dressed,” Athena mused, watching George’s impromptu dance. His arms stretched wide, a silent celebration in the midst of upheaval. A brief exchange of glances, a touch of the moustache, and a nod to the music—communication beyond words.

“I fixed the antennae,” George declared, interrupting the radio’s melodic voyage. Kosta, near the mirrored cupboard, observed the curated collection of cups, saucers, and memories. Framed photographs adorned the top, capturing familial ties spanning continents.

Athena, clutching a photo, ventured into the past. “Do you know what today is, George?” she asked. “Good Friday,” he responded. Tears welled in her eyes as she crossed herself, the photo a bridge to a painful memory. “Today, three years ago, Aliki died.” The room echoed with her grief, and she pointed to a baby in Kosta’s arms, frozen in time. “Three years ago, today, my baby girl died.”

George, now facing the dual challenges of past and present, sought answers. “What did the doctor say?”

“Xenitia – home sickness, that is all,” Athena confessed, her vulnerability laid bare. “I want to go home. I want to be with my family, be able to walk the streets and breathe Greek air!”

Before George could respond, Athena’s anguish erupted in a torrent of words. “VROOM! VROOM! all day, 12 hours a day VROOM! VROOM! The machine pricking my fingers and the boss yelling – FASTER! FASTER! VROOM! VROOM! – I want to go home. I don’t want to sew Akubra hats anymore!”

The room hung heavy with the weight of unspoken dreams and shattered illusions. Athena’s plea lingered in the air, a plea not just for herself but for a family caught between two worlds.