When I was a young man, I was given a priceless gift by someone — a lens through which I could understand my own interactions with the world.
The person in question, a mental health professional and a good friend, did tell me that he had cribbed it off of one of his clients but it was so good that he had added it to his bag of treatment tools.
The lens was as such … The people of the world can be very loosely divided into two groups: Those who have an “ethnic” background and those who don’t.
“Ethnic” people are people of exotic origin, or at least, an origin considered exotic in the Global North. (If we’re being blunt, it would be anyone who does not have roots in the grey, northern parts of Europe.)
So, we are talking about people of Mediterranean origin or east and south Asian origin or African origin or, indeed, originate anywhere that isn’t the cold, rocky slopes of the parts of Europe where potatoes seasoned with salt and pepper are considered fancy eating.
The reason people coming from outside of that area, outside of what I like to call Potato Europe, are considered “ethnic” and therefore exotic is simple. Much of the history of the modern world was written by people who hail from there. They defined themselves as the norm and everyone else exists almost as an oddity.
Aside: As you might have gathered from my slightly derisive tone, I am what would be considered “ethnic”. (If my surname wasn’t a dead giveaway, meeting me in person definitely would be. My nose and body hair must be seen to be believed …)
My roots are in Lebanon, so not only are they Middle Eastern, but they are in a part of the Middle East bordering the Mediterranean, so you get a double dose of excitability and capriciousness. But, I am like most people who hail from ethnic origins — we endure the stereotypes foisted on us with a kind of weary pride, because we know they are based in truth, but it is a truth stretched paper-thin by decades of lazy discriminatory practices.
And it is for this reason that the lens given to me by my good friend has seen frequent use in the 20 years or so since then. People who share an ethnic background view the world very differently to those who don’t.
Family is everything, often to the detriment of one’s own self. Extended families are often also large and gregarious, shaping personalities without realising they are.
Religion is central to day-to-day life, and even if you aren’t particularly religious, you will have at least one relative who is.
We are passionate, to varying degrees, about almost everything we do, often crossing the line into the aforementioned excitability and capriciousness.
There are negative stereotypes, as well, but since I’m ethnic I will gloss over those.
The reason I mention all of this is that Costa Ayiotis’s new book Matriarchs, Meze and the Evil Eye is a fearless, two-footed jump into what it’s like to be a member of an ethnic family. And not just any ethnic family, but one of fairly unique circumstances.
Ayiotis is Greek, with his family having roots in the Egyptian Greek community, having fled Egypt in the wake of post-Nasser nationalisation. His father, a cotton trader by profession, came to South Africa to take a job with a local mill and brought his family with him.
So far, this story is interesting but not unique. It mirrors the story of many immigrants to South Africa in the 1960s, my own father included. But what makes Ayiotis’ story special are the titular Matriarchs.
Ayiotis grew up with three very strong maternal figures in his life: his mother Victoria, his paternal grandmother Yiayia Kalliope and his paternal aunt and godmother, Nonna Mary. Circumstance placed these three women in the same household and it was Ayiotis’ reality for his entire childhood.
As with most Mediterranean women of their respective generations, my own mother included, these three women shared many things: steadfast religious beliefs; a fierce desire to see their family, and particularly their descendants prosper, almost to the exclusion of logic; years of suppression of personal desires for the benefit of loved ones and the knowledge, held quietly to their chests, that they really ran things, despite what the men in the family thought.
What they did not share, however, was opinions on how their wishes should be brought into effect. Nor did they share the desire to share little Kostaki’s affection.
Using the twin levers of food and religion — potent weapons in the arsenal of any ethnic matriarch —each woman, consciously or unconsciously, sought to monopolise the author’s affection, much to their mutual consternation.
It is via this framework that Ayiotis presents us with his memoir. His own, fairly unique, experiences at home aside, this book manifests itself as the only thing it could be — a simultaneous love letter and exorcism.
Kostaki loves the matriarchs in his life, and is certainly not averse to claiming the rewards, gastronomic and otherwise, that come from their competition for his affection. But he also recognises the undue conflict brought to his own life.
An interesting sub-current in the book is how Ayiotis is literally the only person who can understand the position he is in.
His father, like so many of his generation, spends countless hours slaving at work to provide for the family
His sister is not a boy, and therefore will not have her affection competed for. His cousins, in their multitude, do not have the domestic set-up that he does.
Only little Kostaki has this unique, slightly troublesome but ultimately wonderful, perspective on his life.
And I am grateful that he chose to share it with us. Though it will probably ring slightly truer with those who are “ethnic”, this book is still worth your attention and affection.