BETWEEN TWO ATHENS, DAY TO NIGHT
My first full day in Athens began with a run up to the top of Filopappou park, where, breathless, I could take in a full sweep of the sun-bleached city and end up staring at the Acropolis in the distance.
It was windy and clear, and one of the workers cleaning the Philoparpos Monument, (from which the hill got its name) graciously invited me inside the gates surrounding it. Up close, I looked up and not knowing much about what I was seeing, I somehow knew I was in the presence of something powerful, obdurate, strange.
Back at my apartment I did some googling and found out I had been running on what was known as the “hill of muses.” The Greek geographer Pausanias describes Philopappos’ grand tomb at the top as a monument built for a Syrian man. Apparently, the prince Philopappos was an exile, a prince from the Kommagene of Upper Syria but became a well-heeled Athenian citizen. Little did I know later that day the connection between old Philopappos and his modern-day migrant ancestors would come crashing full force into the 21st-century.
I am in Athens to begin work on a film project, in partnership with the award-winning Greek/Polish photographer Louisa Gouliamaki, whose stunning, humanitarian photos of the refugee crisis caught my eye while researching female migrants and refugees. She invited me that night to a demonstration, organized by various left-wing and anarchist factions in solidarity with students and refugee rights activists. Apparently, a young Nigerian migrant had died in police custody the day before, collapsing in the lobby of the Omonia police station after being beaten. The march had been organized in his honor.
As we gathered in front of the imposing facade of the University of Athens, I noticed a cross-section of people arriving: bearded young men with black and red flags (the markings of proletariat/anarchist factions) earnest students passing out fliers, grey-haired activists and a cadre of photographers, jovially greeting Louisa like it was just another day on the job. One of the main organizers of the event, the Movement Against Racism and the Fascist Threat (KEERFA) were holding huge banners declaring in hand-painted blood-red letters: “Politics are killing them…”
The march began, spilling out onto a major thoroughfare, halting traffic and slowly gathering force as it wound down the main avenue towards Omonia police station where the young migrant had died.
When we arrived at the police station, they were waiting in full riot gear, blocking the road with two large police busses. The mood remained somewhat festive, and although the chanting grew in volume, I did not expect what happened next. A few of the black-masked anarchists, as they are known to do, threw some small chunks of concrete at the busses and then the short, sharp snap of tear gas bombs pierced the air.
I ran, alongside the photographers, forced by the smoke upwards towards Exharcheia, the famed anarchist enclave of students and historical resistance. Louisa told me not to worry, police are not allowed to enter university quarters, a precedent laid down by an anti-establishment history that dates back to 1973, when the Athens Polytechnic uprising took place, when students demonstrating against the dictatorship were met with a tank, killing 24.
The riot-gear clad police moved into formation on a street corner where the protestors had lit refuse buns on fire as makeshift barriers. I looked around and also noticed a hipster bar, full of patrons, a nail salon, and the “Cinema Libre” video store, next to a shop selling antique jewelry and religious icons, still open for business. The scene went from menacing to a menagerie of absurdity: a businessman hurried through the chaos as if nothing was happening, another woman with her designer shopping bag asked what was happening. One of the photographers smiled, snapped a photo and told her “It’s nothing, just the new democracy…”
I walked home that night wondering what structure, if any, would be built for the Nigerian man, beyond the mental monuments his wife and family were now forced to build, over and over, out of their collective memories.
Originally published at https://medium.com on March 1, 2019.
