The Best Letter I Never Received: Michalia Arathimos

This letter was commissioned by Verb for Verb Festival’s showcase event on Friday 6 November 2020 at National Library of New Zealand.

I’m Michalia Arathimos and I’m a Greek New Zealander from Lyall Bay. For the past seven years I’ve lived in Australia with my family. We were meant to come back for good in July of this year, but cue the global pandemic. We came back early, right as Aotearoa entered hard lockdown. 

My grandfather arrived in Aotearoa in the 1950s as a refugee, fleeing war and famine and seeking a better future. But this was not the first time he’d fled. He was raised in Romania and when the war came he fled conscription into the Romanian army. We don’t know how he made it through Bulgaria and on to Greece, but he did. By the time he made his home in Wellington he was a double refugee, part of a diaspora whose echoes I still carry. 

We began 2020 in the bush in Australia with a group of Australian friends, surrounded on all sides by raging bushfires. One day it was 42 degrees and a ranger came to evacuate us. Some of our friends elected to stay, hardened to the fire threat, they figured it would be alright. If a fire came, they reasoned, they would go down to the bay, put blankets over their children’s heads and go into the water. 

My partner and myself collected our children and got the hell out of there. 

It was good practice, because by the time we came back to our house, in a high fire risk area and where the landscape was cloaked in smoke for many weeks, the rumours about Coronavirus began. 

We have an immuno-compromised child, and we didn’t trust the Australian government. Because who would trust the Australian government? Again, we collected our children and we fled, packing up our family home in three days. Our flights were cancelled. We were left at the airport in the midst of a global pandemic. But we did manage to get flights, and we did manage to get home. 

As I boarded the plane with my family, I remember looking at my passport and praying to my grandfather, who has long ago passed away: ‘Thank you, Πάπου, thank you Πάπου.’ At that moment my passport was a ticket to the safest place in the world. How lucky I am, how lucky we all are, to be right here, right now. 

My Never Sent Letter is a missive from my grandfather, a man who spoke four languages and chose to come to this boring place, this quiet place, this place at the ends of the earth, and call it home.  

I imagined he might describe his reasons for travel. I imagined he might be rather impressionistic in the way he spoke, being a spirit. And I imagined he has been here with me, all along. 

Dear Μιχαλία, 

Some cultures carry needles for unstitching. Even the 

walls are listening. The beach dashed itself against 

the water, not bound to anyone. It crashed over

we laboured under. Take care Μιχαλία and swallow 

here no water. You are bound to the division of our cells. 

One day I awoke and I had forgotten the names of trees. 

The fireworks rained down and the earth rose up, one long

autumnal shudder. The summer receded like sand from the 

sea’s teeth. Let me pull you under. We were subject to 

many storms like biblical visitations. We tried 

to re-construct but it grew too much for us. I went 

searching for you in the widening cracks: I thought 

you should know about us. Enter:

Μιχαλί, Μιχαλία, Μιχαλίτσα 

When we came here the streetlights were the only lights on at night

There were no cafes and everything shut at six

The men made themselves sick on their weak beer

And we had to smuggle garlic, passing it from hand to hand in our churches

Olive oil we got from the chemist

Your Kiwi grandparents called our food foreign muck

They said to go back to your country

I said this is the most peaceful place in the world

I said I’m so happy to be here

I said we can spend our days here growing tomatoes 

making salsa, caring for the children

we might not have had otherwise"

We were not bored. We lived by the cold sea

and I never forgot the word Θαλασσα

because Θαλασσα contains the sea the way

my journey contains your journey

Last night I was on the boat between worlds 

Here is the coin you laid across my eyes

I heard you when you thanked me. I saw you leap

From rock to rock bringing your family with you 

I heard you. Here is my proof, the token

I offer you: A passport, with our family name on it 

Please, take it. Take it. 

The national park outside Michalia’s fire-prone house.

Michalia in the park in summer. The long grass could cause fires to leap up to 22 kilometres per hour, in previous years. But since this summer the speeds are faster and unprecedented.

Michalia driving her kids towards Melbourne and out of the bush. THIS IS FINE.