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“Those people who were yelling at you before – do you know what they were saying?” Maria asks.
“No of course not. I can’t understand Greek.”
“They were saying; ‘don’t take photos, because the kids will throw petrol bombs at you and they may go in our shops’. No shit. That’s what they said…”

 

Anarchy in Athens

Maria and me are sitting around in the square, around the corner from the Art School in Athens.

Maria says: “why don’t you talk to some of the people here in the square? You could interview them. This is an anarchist hang-out.”
To me, the people sitting around the square just look like typical university students, sitting in groups, talking and drinking beer.
“I don’t know” I say, “they don’t look like anarchists to me. Twenty something anarchists are usually just full of talk anyway. Anarchists who do stuff are more interesting interview subjects.”
“Well you won’t know until you talk to them, will you?” Maria scolds me.

Maria’s a very forthright person. Gregarious, charming, flirtatious. She’s great at walking up to strangers and making them her friends. That’s one of the reasons she’s a great hitchhiker. In another life she could have been a diplomat or a politician.

“Look. To be honest, is not just that I’m sceptical about their eligibility as interview subjects, it’s also that… I’m just not really comfortable talking to strangers a lot of the time. I assume that everyone is going to dislike me, so I just don’t want to get in people’s faces. It’s partly symptomatic of my depression I guess. When I’m in an up phase I can talk to anyone, but right now – feeling the way I am – no. My default position is extreme social anxiety. Even with people I know.”
Maria laughs.
“That’s a pretty shit characteristic for a documentary maker!”
“Yeah. Tell me about it. Especially if you’re trying to be a character in the story yourself. Why do you think I stuck to acting and fictional stories most of my life. I like being people other than myself.”
“Well, you’re going to have to get over that aren’t you?”
“Yep. That’s why I keep doing it. Real life stories are harder to tell. It makes me anxious but I figure I’ll just keep doing it, and doing it, and eventually I’ll get used to it and I won’t feel anxious any more.”
“Weird the things that make people anxious isn’t it?” Maria laughs. “People are more scared of public speaking than death!”
“Let’s take a walk through the Art School” I suggest. “I want to see what the graffiti scene’s like at night.”

We stroll down the block to the side gate of the campus.
As we get closer to the campus walls, we notice a strange smell, like burning rubber mixed with horseradish.
“Maybe they’ve set fire to the library again” Maria speculates.

When we get to the gate it is guarded by a small group of people wearing black clothing and balaclavas.
A girl holding a steel bar blocks our path.
“You should probably go back up the other way” she advises us. She looks very young. Her eyes, peeking out of her hood, look like the eyes of a teenager.
“What’s going on?” I ask her.
“It’s a training session, kind of” she tells me. “We’re practising fighting the police.”
“Like a… workshop?”
“Something like that” she replies, evasively.

We can hear the sound of dogs barking and radio chatter from further down the block. Then, suddenly the crack of an explosion.

Maria and I walk fast toward the sounds. There are more sharp detonations. Hissing sounds like gas escaping from a pipe. I’ve seen enough TV to know what tear gas grenades sound like.

The police are sheltering behind buildings across the street from the main campus gates. Small fires are burning on the street and there’s a thick fog of smoke and gas swirling under the street lights.

I get out my camera and start walking in the direction of the campus gates.

A petrol bomb arcs across the street, out of the university gate, in the direction of the police. It busts on the road surface and boils into a blob of fire.

There are at least fifty riot police that I can see, in small groups, huddled together. I can’t see many anarchists, but they appear and disappear in the shadows behind the university gates, ducking out to throw Molotov cocktails and then slipping back into the darkness.

I’m expecting the police to stop me. I walk right past a big group of them. They glance at me but don’t pay me much attention.

A group of civilians, middle aged people with worried faces, call out to me urgently in Greek, waving at me to come back out of the street, but I ignore them.

I get closer and closer to the fires and the spraying tear gas. I’m coughing and choking but I don’t want to pull my scarf over my face in case the riot cops decide I’m a target and crack my head for me.

I’m in no-man’s land. In front of me are the anarchist students, behind me the riot cops. I hold my camera up high and keep it moving. I don’t want anyone to think I’m taking sides.

I see a couple of young anarchists close to me, just on the other side of the iron railed wall. I try to get close enough to talk to them but they edge away and disappear into the dark.

A skirmish breaks out. The students edge forward out of the gate and lob some stones and Fire bombs. The police push forward and drive them back into the campus.
More tear gas. The air gets unbreathable.

I’ve had enough. My eyes are burning and streaming and I’m losing my breath. I turn back and rejoin Maria at the corner.

We walk back up the street to where we met the girl with the iron bar.

“Those people who were yelling at you before – do you know what they were saying?” Maria asks.
“No of course not. I can’t understand Greek.”
“They were saying; ‘don’t take photos, because the kids will throw petrol bombs at you and they may go in our shops’. No shit. That’s what they said.”
“Nice. I knew they were telling me off for something. You know something weird. I just realised – I didn’t see any other cameras. Where are the press? If this was happening in Australia there would be news crews all over the joint.”
“I think it’s become too commonplace for them to bother” Maria says. “There have been so many riots here in the last five years. It’s not news any more.”
“Or maybe the anarchists throw petrol bombs at the reporters, so they don’t show up any more.”

The girl with the iron bar isn’t at the gate. The gates are locked now with a thick chain.
We can dimly see a few masked people sitting smoking cigarettes in the shadows just inside the gates.

“Hi” Maria says “what are you protesting about?”
An older guy with a beard comes forward.
“This is a show of solidarity with political prisoners in the United States” he tells us.
“I’m a blogger” I explain, “can I interview you?”
The bearded guy snorts and turns away.
“We’re not interested in taking to you. We don’t talk to media people.”

Maria and I start walking home.
The riot seems to be finished.
The students have locked themselves inside their campus.
The police are packing up.

The cops are joking and laughing together. A lot of them are very young. In their twenties, just like the anarchists.

As we walk home I think about what I just experienced. I feel alert, energised. I don’t feel shaky or upset.

It was a strange feeling walking in that no-man’s land. I’m glad the police didn’t decide I was an anarchist and beat me up.

I think about what it would feel like to be hit by a Molotov cocktail. Burning petrol splashing over your skin. I’m glad I didn’t find out.

I wonder if there were people in that street tonight who know what it’s like to be beaten with a truncheon or burned with petrol? I bet there were. Almost certainly there were people there who have friends who know.

There are probably a lot of people in this city who know what it’s like to be in a riot. Rioting is part of the culture of this city.

It’s so commonplace it isn’t even news worthy.

If they do it often enough, people can get used to anything, I guess.

 

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