Looking at my open notebook with blank lined pages, I fixate on the fold where the pages rise and fall. I envision a valley holding my family’s history in its palm, a valley where ancient ruins of theatres sit beside modern buildings, a valley hot like the oven where my Pappou baked bread. For Pappou, life pulsed to the rhythms of kneading and oven spring.

This story is my story. It begins with my Pappou’s birth in Kalipefki, a village nestled in the foothills of Mount Olympus. I visit this place years after his death, picnicking near a forest with my extended family. The youngest, most mischievous children wander among the trees, emerging delighted, cradling tiny, dark-green speckled turtles in their palms. Together, we walk to the square, the plateia. It’s surrounded on three sides by cafes and on the other by a church. I imagine this is the modest church where my grandparents wed long ago. We pass the fenced-off house where my Pappou was born. It’s overgrown with greenery, a flood of flowers and trees. 

For most of my life, I believed this to be your first home. But, home for you wasn’t such a simple place. For you, Pappou, home was a site of trauma and displacement. Various wars shifted the earth beneath you. Yet, you endured. You rebuilt your parent’s home after the Germans levelled it during World War II. A new beginning forestalled. Later, a civil war divided your village, forcing you to flee. I imagine the day those officers—decorated in crisp, stern uniforms—visited your home while your wife was in labour. They wanted to baptize your first child. When word spread, their opponents threatened your life. And so you fled with your wife and newborn daughter to a nearby village to take refuge. You remained for a year.

I follow you down winding mountain roads. Candles and icons sit perched atop small monuments where travellers stop to pray for those who perished on these steep curves. I follow you to Larissa, where you settled with your wife and daughter and had two more children. I hold a thin, faded photo coloured in black and white, and I stare. I stare at your smiling face; your lips spread thin with pride. You transport me to a distant past. I feel I am clinging to a sacred moment I must hold carefully. You stand outside the clay-and-brick house that you and Yiayia built. I see you cooking a small lamb skewered on a souvla above an open fire. You stand tall as a pine tree. Your wife and three children surround you; I recognize my father crouching beside the fire. I realize your prideful smile testifies to how hard you worked to create this moment. Perhaps you thought of the home and the life you built for your family: a place where you could live safely, a place of nourishment. 

You work as a baker for the Greek army. You work as a shoemaker. You make shoes for your children. Their durability disappoints my father, who wishes for a newer, stylish pair. Your wife, my Yiayia, works the fields during the harvest. And still, you know another home awaits you, your wife and your children. So you place your hopes in a new country. 

I follow you on a large ship that stops in Napoli. You wander its cobblestone streets until it’s time to journey beyond the Mediterranean Sea across the Atlantic to Halifax. From there, you board a train to Montreal. You are amazed at the white fluffy slices of bread they give you and your wife and children to eat. They are so light and moist on the tongue, worlds away from the rough and heavy bread you baked for the army. 

You continue to Toronto, then settle briefly in Prince George, joining your eldest child and her husband out west. You return to Toronto, inhabiting various houses—rented spaces, ever transient. Then, finally, you buy your first home. A modest Scarborough bungalow welcomes you with a cotton candy pink door and a diamond window. Soon you acquire modern appliances—a matching olive green stove and a fridge. You plant a garden. You manage without a knowledge of English, working to provide for your family. First, a bakery, then a restaurant. Sometimes you cross the border to Boston to work construction. 

Home for you wasn’t simply a place to rest your head. Home describes more than the Greek word ‘spiti’. It’s more deeply rooted, more akin to Greek words like ‘hora’ and ‘patrida,’ land and fatherland. These words are used in the diaspora to express feelings of connection to one’s homeland. A synonym for home is ‘oikos,’ which encompasses the family, their physical house, and familial property. Yet, this word doesn’t capture the meaning of home in my Pappou’s experience. The phrase ‘archiki selida’ seems more accurate: home is the beginning of the page. Home is a starting point. It is a place that moves and accompanies us as we journey through life. It is not an endpoint but a process. For my Pappou, it was the many places he took shelter, seeking refuge from hunger and poverty. 

I, too, seek refuge in this idea of home as a place that travels through time. I wish to explore my ancestors’ homes since they are no longer here to share their stories. And through my memories and imaginings of these places, I can tell my own story of how I came to be here, in this cozy bungalow on a serene street in central Scarborough. Here, I am sheltered from the packed sidewalks and crosswalks, honking horns and squealing streetcars. Here, I am far enough away to have a place suitable for solitude and reflection. Here, I am close enough to venture into Toronto’s various neighbourhoods, cultural enclaves for Canadians, new and old. 

I drive down Leslie Street and pass the home where my Pappou and Yiayia first settled with their daughter and son-in-law. I walk north on Jones Street from Queen to the Danforth—the same path my grandparents walked to shop at the mom-and-pop groceries. As my feet hit the sidewalk, I realize I am reenacting their movements. I realize the freedom I enjoy: the freedom to explore Toronto at my leisure. 

Toronto neighbourhoods like the Danforth offer refuge for those who crossed oceans seeking sanctuary. This arduous and inspiring journey of survival makes me think about the antithesis of home. The term homeless in Greek is ‘astegos,’ which translates to ‘without a covering.’ We all seek shelter from the elements, whether it’s the beating, Mediterranean sun or the blowing snow of Southern Ontario. 

I ask you to consider where you take shelter. I ask you to consider the places and people that have sheltered you. Think about those who preceded you. They have built you a covering, one passed through generations. 

The Greek word for refugees, ‘prosfyges,’ means ‘toward-fleers.’ Fleeing toward safety and nourishment requires bravery, trust and hope. It’s an intergenerational act, a gesture of sacrifice for one’s progeny; one intended to spare them the pain of dislocation; one intended to create for them a home. For refugees and immigrants, home is always fragmented. A part of each of them remains in their homeland, while another resides in their chosen country. But this fragmentation is also a source of strength and resilience. It inspires a determination to mould their idea of home independently and for generations to come. My Pappou’s journey to make a home, a place he could provide for himself and his family, compels me to believe that everyone deserves comfort and security. It is never far from my mind that his sacrifices allowed my father, myself, and all his grandchildren to pursue dreams beyond his reach. Home is not just a place that meets your basic needs; it’s the foundation for growth and opportunity, as well as a place for rest, leisure and reflection. It’s where you begin; it’s where you return for nourishment and strength while on your journey. Home is the blank page upon which I write my story, a blank page my Pappou made me.

Eleni Gouliaras