The lives of migrants often consist of divisions and collisions. At least partly: that’s the way it seems to me, anyhow, although ‘collisions’ may be the wrong word. There is the border between the old life and the new, the line drawn between past and present, the home country left behind and the strange one with its various demands and necessary adjustments. But sometimes both lives come together in unexpected ways, and one such conjunction is about to happen to me.
My youngest grandchild, a little girl of 15 months, is to be christened the day after Orthodox Easter, which this year falls on the 24th of April. Result: she is to be christened on Anzac Day! I have told my three sons about this important anniversary: they are amused by the coincidence, and pleased that I am pleased. There is, of course, no more reaction to be expected.
I can remember my first Anzac Day. Not even five, I held my partner’s hand as the class wound in a crocodile towards the local war memorial. Then I put the cross of white chrysanthemums my mother had made on the memorial’s lowest step. Even after decades spent in Greece, I still remember Anzac Day. It is no effort, while I’ve always thought it is the least I can do, as both my father and grandfather saw active service, my father in Borneo, my grandfather in France and Belgium. The day is remembered in Greece, too, for Greeks and Anzacs fought together in the last war, so that in years not beset by pandemic very moving memorial services are held in various places throughout the country. The biggest is held at the beautiful military cemetery in Phaleron, Athens, and is always well attended.
But Anzac Day has been a controversial anniversary for years, with many people maintaining it glorifies war. I have never agreed with this point of view, thinking instead of young people’s willingness to make the supreme sacrifice, and believing that they will always have a right to some acknowledgement. At the time of the first war, Australia’s population was under 5 million, 417,000 men between the ages of 18 and 44 enlisted, and 60,000 died. Do the math, as they say.
Such thoughts will be tucked away at the back of my mind this year, because baptism is a very important day, the day one begins the Christian life. My granddaughter will be given a classical name in memory of her great-grandmother, and a saint’s name for her maternal grandmother, who died only six months ago. To this day, Greek parents refer to their infant as Baby until after the ceremony of baptism. But I did, however, know a couple in long-ago Melbourne, who temporarily called their baby boy Clayton: the name you have when you haven’t got a name.
'She will be starting her new life, but I know that by the end of the day I will be thinking of another place, another time, and of those whose lives have ended, but are still part of hers.'
Symbolism, as can be imagined, is an integral part of the liturgy. The blessed water cleanses the child in the most significant way, washing away original sin and achieving union with Christ. Said child of course does not realise this, and usually shrieks with indignation at being immersed three times in homage to the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, and in memory of Christ’s birth, death, three days in the tomb, and resurrection. (But our priest, a relative, is both considerate and comforting.)
Chrismation then takes place, and the baby is anointed with oil on forehead, eyes, nostrils, mouth, ears, chest, hands and feet in a repetition of the gift of the Holy Spirit received by the Apostles at Pentecost. He or she often takes Holy Communion immediately afterwards. Children also have their hair cut for the first time on this occasion: the priest usually cuts two locks in the form of a cross in order to signify that God guides the child’s life from now on.
The godparent, having already renounced Satan on behalf of the child, presents him or her with a new set of clothes, usually quite elaborate and expensive, and a gold cross, gold being a symbol of eternity and incorruptibility. Family and friends then line up to wish the child well, and are given koufeta, sugared almonds presented in often elaborate favours such as decorated jars or little baskets. There are always five, representing health, wealth, love, prosperity, and happiness.
And then the celebratory feasting can begin.
On Anzac Day my granddaughter will join the great flow of Orthodoxy, but I hope one day she will know about her little trickle of Australian blood. She will be starting her new life, but I know that by the end of the day I will be thinking of another place, another time, and of those whose lives have ended, but are still part of hers.
Gillian Bouras is an expatriate Australian writer who has written several books, stories and articles, many of them dealing with her experiences as an Australian woman in Greece.
Main image: Greek Orthodox baptism. (Michelle Farsi / Getty Images)