I awake to the sound of pounding rain, thunder. It’s grey and dismal.
I sip my first coffee, looking at the morning news feed.
I see students in Giannitsa, northern Greece, in a protest march. Their
banners proclaim ‘Rid Greece of Illegal Immigrants’, ‘Close the Borders’ and ‘Solidarity
for the Greeks’… In other recent news, residents of Diavata (also in northern
Greece) had a protest march too. They call for the closing of a nearby refugee center
which provides shelter, they want more police presence in their area, better street
lighting in their neighborhoods. Similar protests took place on islands such as
Kos and Leros. No one wants more refugees in their towns, on their islands…
How quickly some forget who we are, and where we came from, how
quickly the suffering and struggles of the generations who came before us are
discarded. What causes this lapse in memory?
The very apartment building I live
in was created out of refugee housing (as many buildings in various
neighborhoods in Athens are). In the early decades of the 1900s, fleeing persecution
in Asia Minor, the family members three generations back, arrived in Athens as
refugees, to eventually receive a plot of land where they managed to build a
small house. Fast forward to the early 1970s and the later generation turned
over their small house and land to developers, who constructed an apartment
building, giving them a number of units in return. Apartments, which to this
day, continue to provide shelter to the latest generations (including me) of
the once-refugee family.
The rain outside comes down harder, flashes of lightening come
through the window. I scroll through more news items.
In Diavata, the anti-immigrant protesters had a BBQ in the town’s
central square. A group called ‘United Macedonians’ grilled pork and drank alcohol,
as a way of protesting against the many Muslim refugees at the nearby refugee
center. In a statement they said “To the transnational and Islamic segregation
of our country and Europe, we respond with plenty of pork meat and plenty of
alcohol, with plenty of trolling and fighting action.”
What causes such heartlessness? Fear, insecurity, cowardice?
On TV, a morning talk show hostess, claims refugees “lack culture
and education” and shouldn’t be having so many kids, because they can’t afford
to raise them. She seems outraged by “these pregnant women getting on rafts to
cross borders”…
Konstantinos Bogdanos – former journalist, current member of
parliament for New Democracy party – recently likened the inflows of refugees
entering Greece as “the hallmarks of an enemy invasion”…
The new government’s new, stricter migration policy has been fueling
such sentiments in the mainstream media. New Democracy aims to deport 10,000
immigrants by the end of the year, and parliament
passed new asylum regulations that make it more difficult for refugees to seek
safe haven in Greece.
The rain has lessened, but thunder seems to shake my apartment building to
its very foundations. I stop clicking on the news.
I scroll though the facebook world, a friend (“N”) has posted a selfie
from the airport. He’s been living in Greece since 2007 after fleeing Afghanistan;
in 2016 he obtained refugee status. With the passport control sign looming in
the background, he posts about the scrutiny he faces each time he travels
regarding his residence permit, return ticket, his very reason for traveling: “…this
is because we are dark-skinned and we look different…” In the photo, he is
wearing a blue t-shirt with an image of a sailing ship that says ‘illegal immigration
started in 1492’.
In his most recent posts, “N” has arrived in Brussels, at an EU
conference about improving asylum procedures, and is smiling, standing with colleagues
from other EU countries.
I put down my laptop, slide open the balcony doors. The rain has
subsided to a sprinkle, the skies are struggling to clear, dappled light poking
through the clouds. I step outside, trying to shrug off the cacophony of hatred
and ignorance. Instead, I think of N in
Brussels, (and many like him), working towards inclusion and understanding. I
think of these people, their efforts, their voices.
Because theirs are the voices that matter.
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