Today we farewell Marika Kermedelidis, Theo's grandmother and the founder of the Kermedelidis family in Christchurch. She arrived here in 1951 after several forced migrations around Central Europe. Born on the Crimean Peninsula, her family were Greek and expelled from northern Turkey in the early 1900's. When she was 6, her father was taken as a political prisoner and sent to a labour camp in Siberia. He died within 6 months. Her mother raised the family of four girls during difficult times, including occupation of their village by Germans in the Second World War.
When all non-Russians were declared enemies of the state by the Russians after the war, they were given ten minutes to pack up and taken from the Crimea to Uzebekistan. After an arranged marriage Marika and her husband went to Greece, then came to New Zealand. The family is very close and Madika was much loved. I used to spend time listening to her stories and eating Greek dishes. Cooking was Marika's speciality and food a token of love. Marika's English was pigeon, but tales of her early days, the hardship, the uncertainty and ultimately, the survival, were a reminder of how lucky I am, and how difficult is the life of a refugee.
When all non-Russians were declared enemies of the state by the Russians after the war, they were given ten minutes to pack up and taken from the Crimea to Uzebekistan. After an arranged marriage Marika and her husband went to Greece, then came to New Zealand. The family is very close and Madika was much loved. I used to spend time listening to her stories and eating Greek dishes. Cooking was Marika's speciality and food a token of love. Marika's English was pigeon, but tales of her early days, the hardship, the uncertainty and ultimately, the survival, were a reminder of how lucky I am, and how difficult is the life of a refugee.
Today, Kahu and I go to the Orthodox church and negotiate our way through the unfamiliar rituals of the Greek church. Standing for the best part of an hour while the burial ritual is chanted, my feet get tired but my brain slowly goes to sleep. The incense and chanting are hypnotic and I'm swaying on the spot by the time the service finishes. We chat in the cold outside the church then madly follow a fellow funeral goer through rush hour traffic to Linwood Cemetery for the burial. I can't lose the car cos the cemetery is a maze and I'd never find the grave. I throw dirt onto the coffin under a melancholy winter sky, a fitting day for burial and endings. Back at the church hall we tuck into spanokopita and baklava. Marika's food and food of the Greek community. She was a wonderful cook and I never said no. Hers was a life well lived. Hers a legacy of love.
Likewise it seems for George Floyd. His second grade teacher said he wanted to be a judge when he grew up so he could implement change. His death has lit a torch for change. So many wrongs, so little justice. Protests since his death are demanding change, and not just in America. Here in New Zealand, calls for armed police patrols in mainly Maori and Polynesian communities are being suspended. The proposed raptor squad, modeled on one in Australia, is being mothballed. Calls for our police to carry fewer arms, are being listened to. It's about time. The system is racist and needs to do better. We all need to do better.
I go to Pioneer Stadium for the first post lock down volley ball game. It's weird after social distancing but so normal too. We lose. Que sera sera.
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