Ancestry 28 - Eudoxia & Leonidas: In the Shantytown

 And so, they arrived in Thessaloniki. Settling in the city, finding a roof over their heads and existing humanely, for those who did not possess and brought with them gold sovereigns, jewellery or anything of appreciable exchange value, meant facing another tall mountain to climb, another ordeal to endure. The support from the government of an inherently disorganized state and a society of meagre means to redistribute, which had to deal with a momentous disaster and national humiliation and was swamped by the influx of near two million refugees, was paltry and mostly relied on conditional foreign aid. After disembarkation many lived in tents erected in open areas, church yards, and military camps in the outskirts of the city, or makeshift shacks from sheets of metal or planks or whatever they could put their hands on. Such temporary shelters were set up randomly in slums (dare not say ghettos), far from the urban and relatively affluent core of the city and its seafront villas. Over the interwar years, the bourgeois of old Thessaloniki and the few wealthy people amongst the immigrants entrenched themselves in the city centre. Most local Thessalonians and the populus Jewish community of Salonica remained seemingly untouched by the influx and displayed an indifference towards the multitude of the newcomers from Anatolia. Several public remonstrances primarily stemmed from concerns about the impact on the economy of the city and the unpredictable and possible dramatic changes in the fabric of the society that would take place. The recent experience with the presence of foreign allied troops stationed in the city during the later stages of WWI had disturbed their lives and contributed to generally negative sentiments towards the immigrants from Anatolia. The resentment, more noticeable amongst Jews and Slavs, was counter-balanced by sympathy, even congeniality and camaraderie from Greeks, until then a relative minority in the city, who saw its ethnic profile changing to their favour.  

After the initial turmoil subsided, the Kampakis family and adolescent Eudoxia amongst them, were reunited in the slum of Kato Toumba, above the churches of Agios Therapontas and Agios Fanourios up the slopes of the Seih Sou hill. There, in shacks without electricity and sanitation, with makeshift toilets, drinking water carried in ewers from nearby wells, Vasilis, Stelios and Chryssa, the older siblings of Eudoxia with their families and a group of refugees from Bayindir, began rebuilding their livelihoods. Grandmother Eudoxia, with Yiannis, her younger brother, and their mother Anna “the Stork” Yiakoumis (because of her long legs and tall stature) set up their house a little further, in the Malakopi district. The end of their adventure marked the beginning of the struggle for survival in their new homeland -from ground zero.

Only few amongst the youngest of the refugees managed to complete an elementary education curriculum in Bayindir before disaster struck. Some attained basic reading skills, even fewer were able to write legibly. To enrol in the so-called tin-school of their shantytown was beyond consideration for most, under the harsh living conditions and the struggle for daily survival; a day-in and a day-out, as they say, for subsistence, which had inevitably diffused any notions for furthering their education amongst their aims in life. However, over time they managed to settle. One could dare say that they almost prospered -in a relative way and against the backdrop of a post-war vibrant and industrial city growing in a rapid pace. With personal and family toil and community support the shacks were gradually replaced by whitewashed houses, decent in their simplicity. The housewives filled the small front yards with pots of jasmine and basil. Their scents filled the still dusty or muddy streets of the shantytown, which, after decades, would eventually transform itself to a respectable suburb.

Most importantly, hopes and expectations returned to the hearts and minds -of the youngest and their offsprings, at least. For them, nostalgia did not carry the same emotional weight as for the elderly. Being branded a refugee did not affect their conscience and being. Salonica was their new home, the only home they grew to know. They discovered a zest for life in their relative poverty, were content with a simple existence of few materialistic demands, of their close-knitted family life and neighbourhood camaraderie, friendships and good humour. The optimism and longing for life, innate in most, found new roots and grew and strengthened by the experience and tales from the tragic events of the past. Indeed, the grandmother I knew and grew up with, her siblings, friends and old neighbours of Toumba and Malakopi to the north, and the working-class district of Foinikas to the east, where she used to take me along in Sunday afternoon after the church liturgy, were models of optimism and courage, were always content and benevolent people. Both her sons inherited this innate positiveness and confidence, but, unfortunately, that was not the case with me. Many a time life changing events and adversity, like war and persecution and forced immigration, are needed to form and crystallize into an optimistic and positive character, a fighting spirit, and the resilience and stoicism I observed in grandmother.