“Australia feels like a dream now. It grows more distant, the image of it becoming increasingly blurred. It has turned into something abstract. I try not to think about it because it brings me pain,” Kostas T. tells me when I ask how he feels today about the country where he was born and raised.

Between two worlds

Like Kostas, I too came—or rather, was brought—to Greece by my parents when they decided to return to their homeland after years of hard work overseas. Although we have now spent most of our lives here, Australia still lives within us, and from time to time we feel a quiet sadness at being so far away from it.

Most Greek Australian families repatriated during the 1980s. The military dictatorship had ended, Greece had joined the European Economic Community, and the country was filled with optimism.

“It may sound amusing today, but back then Andreas Papandreou was promising Greeks of the diaspora that they could buy a duty-free car—and even get a telephone connection—if they brought foreign currency back to Greece,” recalls Kostas, who moved to Greece straight after finishing school in Australia.

At the time, having a telephone line in Athens—particularly in the suburbs—was still considered a luxury.

“In general, Greek politicians were trying to create a positive atmosphere,” he says. “They wanted to show that post-dictatorship Greece was a very different country from the one people had left behind.”

Some parents had to offer tempting incentives to persuade their children to move.

“They promised me bicycles—even a horse,” laughs George, a Greek Australian from Sydney. “In the end, instead of a horse, they gave me a mule!”

As for me, I was simply excited that we would be travelling by aeroplane.

The landing in Greece proved abrupt for many young Greek Australians. The country seemed not to have moved forward. On the contrary, it felt as though it had been left behind in time—something that left a deep mark on our young minds. The first real crash test came at school.

“It was a huge shock for me,” George remembers. “You simply couldn’t compare an Australian public school with a Greek one. Back there we had tennis courts, basketball courts, a swimming pool, science labs… I kept asking myself: ‘Where’s the football field? Where’s the swimming pool?’”

And it wasn’t just the schools.

It was the concrete instead of parks, apartment blocks instead of homes with backyards, potholes in the roads, animals lying dead after being hit by cars, footpaths that barely existed, the sudden disappearance of the English language, and the loss of the Australian way of life.

No one questions Greece’s rich history and culture. It has taught us so much. But Australia also has a vibrant popular culture that many Greeks struggle to understand. Its television, literature, cinema, music scene and comedy shaped who we became and equipped us with a different way of thinking and seeing the world.

Adjusting took time. Some of us carried anger for years.

“Why did you bring us here?!” I remember shouting at my mother.

It may sound dramatic, but sometimes I feel we belonged to a “stolen generation”. There was no internet back then, and even if there had been, living in a country is nothing like looking at digital images of it.

“My father and mother weren’t strict people, and they genuinely loved Australia,” Kostas recalls. “But all of their brothers, sisters and relatives were here. Greece drew them back like a magnet. I went along with them because I didn’t want to destroy their dream of returning home.”

The opening lines of Odysseas Elytis’ poem That Which Cannot Be come to mind:

“If only nostalgia had a body, so I could push it out the window. To shatter that which cannot be shattered.”

Aussie Greeks or Greek Australians?

Several years ago, I found myself sharing drinks with a group of expatriates on the beach at Palaio Faliro.

Introducing myself in English, I said I was an “Australian Greek.”

A Greek man immediately corrected me.

“You mean a Greek Australian.”

Without thinking, I replied that I had simply mentioned first the country where I was born.

That brief exchange sparked a flood of questions. Which country is truly mine? Where do I belong? Am I Australian or Greek? Those of us who belong to the second generation of Greek Australians grew up constantly hearing stories about the Greece our parents and grandparents had left behind. Preserving your heritage, language and traditions is one thing; having another country presented to you as unquestionably your own is quite another.

“Back then, children’s feelings weren’t really acknowledged,” says Maria K., who moved to Greece from Victoria at the age of 12.

“There was a general attitude of, ‘Get over it!’”

Niki S., who arrived in Greece at 18, believes the adjustment was particularly difficult for younger children.

“I’ve heard it was incredibly hard for those who came here at a young age,” she says. “They were used to the Australian system, where everything was more organised, and suddenly they had to adapt to a different language, a different culture and a completely different way of learning. It created something close to trauma.”

Some who returned to Greece later tried to move back to Australia, only to discover there was nothing left to hold onto.

“I was devastated when I saw that the house I’d grown up in belonged to someone else,” Kostas T. admits. “It really shook me because I had been so attached to my family home. I felt as though I had come back to nothing. Eventually I told myself, ‘What’s done is done,’ and I returned to Greece.”

The feeling of freedom

There is, of course, another side to the story.

Many Greek Australians feel a stronger sense of belonging in Greece.

“It was sad that we left Australia, but I don’t feel nostalgic for it,” says Maria K. “Greece is my country now.”

Her words echo the feelings of many others I spoke with.

While working on this story, I realised that for many people, the idea of homeland is not defined solely by where they were born, but by the people they love and the relationships they build. Perhaps the old saying is true after all: home is where your family is. It is hardly surprising when you consider how central family is to Greek life.

“We never questioned our parents’ decision,” says Katerina, a Greek Australian from Sydney.

“In Australia I was considered Greek, and in the very year we moved to Greece, I was considered ‘the foreigner’. In reality, I was exactly the same person—I was simply living in a different environment.”

Later, when Katerina moved to England to study, she gradually realised where she truly wanted to build her future.

“I think London helped me understand what it means to live in Europe,” she explains. “I realised I liked the idea of living in Greece while being only a few hours away from another European country.”

Australia’s geography, she says, simply cannot offer that same ease of access to other cultures.

“Australia is multicultural, but it’s completely different living in Europe, where you can experience different countries, languages and cultures over the course of a single weekend.”

After London, Katerina returned to Australia to complete her professional training. It didn’t take long for her to realise she wanted to settle permanently in Greece.

“This time, though, the decision was entirely mine,” she says. “Moving here originally was my family’s decision. Choosing to come back was my own. There’s a different kind of freedom here. I love the Greek way of life.”

I ask whether she misses Australia.

“Do I miss it?” she replies without hesitation. “I’m not someone who overthinks things. I accept them.”

Niki shares a similar perspective.

“If I were living in Australia today, I’d probably be in a much better financial position,” she says. “But I’m happier here. Greece is my home now.”

Despite their different journeys, one feeling unites many Greek Australians: the sense of living permanently between two homelands.

For some, that duality is a source of strength. For others, it is a lifelong internal negotiation.

“I think the worst thing you can do is compare,” Katerina says. “You’ll never be happy because you’ll always have one foot here and the other there.”

She pauses before adding:

“That’s life. You learn to deal with situations and find your way through them. That’s how you build resilience.”

Niki reflects on the emotional complexity of belonging.

“I won’t hide it—sometimes I’m even afraid to use the word homeland. But it’s something I’ve now come to accept.”

Her words capture a familiar experience within the Greek diaspora: the feeling that you never fully belong to either country.

Another interviewee expresses it differently.

“For many years I lived in a fog. I didn’t know where I truly belonged. Slowly, you learn to live with it. The truth is, you don’t completely belong anywhere. You exist somewhere in between.”

Perhaps, in the end, the question “Aussie Greeks or Greek Australians?” doesn’t require a definitive answer.

For many of those who shared their stories, identity is not about choosing between two worlds but about living in both at once. It is a continuous negotiation between the country where they were born and the place where they learned to live. Rather than being a contradiction, that dual identity is ultimately what defines them most.