Since my arrival, I have been interested in learning about the recent changes taking place in Athens. This is a city known throughout the world for its life 2,000 years ago. However, a lot has changed since antiquity. The life that I see taking place on the streets around me has almost no relationship to the dreams of Greece that I have heard from others. I almost feel bad describing the reality of my life, which can be summed up by saying that I spend long days scrambling along slippery excrement smeared sidewalks trying my best not to get too lost. This can be taken both metaphorically and literally. Of course, I am asking directions as I go, depending almost entirely on the words and stories of others to articulate all that I see moving along the street.

One of the things that has struck me most about Athens is the number of non-Greeks living here, most notably young men who have poured across the boarder into the promise of Europe. The vast majority of these migrants are from Albania and other former Soviet Block states. However, there are also tens of thousands of Southern Asians and Africans who are making Athens their home. Speaking with Africans who I meet on the street, in shops and through networks I have been impressed and moved by their stories, and personal courage. I have decided to make a project of collecting some of these stories in a series of formal and informal interviews, and when possible, portraits. The following is an excerpt of a profile that I am working currently working on.



“Greeks they are lazy people. They eat all the time. I watch it. They will sit in a café for hours talking bita bita bita bita, and then they will just move next door and begin to eat. They will stay there for more hours. It makes me sad, because their children see this behavior and they learn it. I will never let my children be lazy. They must learn to work, they must study. If I see that they are lazy, I will disown them. You cannot be my child and be lazy. You cannot! And my wife too. She cannot be lazy. This is the most important thing.” –B

B works selling bootleg CDs and DVDs seven days a week in a historic area of the city frequented by tourists and young people. On good days, he can make more than 80 Euros, but some days he only makes five or ten. He has been working in the same area and saving for more than two years, although during the winter, he works shorter days. If the weather is bad, be does not go out at all, preferring to stay in bed watching CNN and praying. He says that some people believe in people, and that some people believe in God. He prefers God because God has really worked for him in the past.

B paid 6,000 American dollars to come to Europe, but did not intend to stop in Greece. He regrets not having gone all the way to Holland, as was originally planned. Traveling was so exhausting, however, that he decided to stop in the first European city he came to. It happened to be Athens. B never intended to stay in Europe. When he left Nigeria, he told his friends and family that he would be gone for three years and return with money. He plans on leaving in ten months, which will make his return to Nigeria exactly three years and three months after his initial departure. He will return with enough money to start his own business selling mobile phones that he will import from China.

As we were eating, B received a call. When he hung up, he was smiling.
“Who was that?” I asked.
“Ah, it was nobody.”
“Then why are you smiling like that? You look very happy.”
“I look happy? I don’t know.”
“Yes, I think you know. Was it a woman?”
“Do I really look happy like that? Yes. Ok, yes, it was a woman.”
“Who?”
“A certain German woman, but I don’t like her.”
“You don’t? Then why are you smiling like this?”
“I don’t think I’m smiling. You know, this woman she really likes me, but I don’t like her. She is always calling me, asking me to come to her place, but I won’t go. I don’t know why, but I don’t like her.”
“Where did you meet?”
“She wanted to do business with me, but she also wants something more. She even offered to pay my rent, but I said no. I am smiling because I was lying to her. I told her that I am not in Athens. I said to her that I am in Patras, and she called to see if I had arrived safely. She doesn’t know that really I am here.”
“Why don’t you like her?”
“I don’t know. Sometimes you don’t like someone and you don’t know why. I can’t tell, but I just don’t like this lady. I really need to tell her that she can’t be calling me like this.”
“Did you let her pay for your rent?”
“No! Of course not! If I liked her, then I would let her pay, but I don’t like her, and to take her money would be wrong. My conscience wouldn’t allow it.”
“How long have you known her?”
“She has been calling me for three weeks now. I don’t know why I didn’t tell her these things before, but I think that now I must. I will say: if you want to do business, fine, but I can’t do more than that with you. And if she goes away, that is her choice. I can’t say anything.”
“Why did she first come to you?”
“I’m not sure. You know, the woman here, they love my hair. They just walk by and call to me like that. They say, “…” Do you know what that means? It means, “Nice hair” in Greek. People are always saying that to me, and even some of the Greeks try to make their hair like mine, but they can’t. On me it is natural. In Africa, this hair means that you are a crazy guy. It means that you are not a good guy. But here it is not the same. It is just a style. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“What will you do when you go back to Nigeria? Will you cut your hair?”
Laughing, “My mother, she will be worrying me. She will say, ‘Ah, you are not a foolish guy? Why this hair?’ She will be very angry, but I will keep it. The people there, they know me, and they trust me, so they can’t mind my hair. I don’t know why people in Nigeria don’t like this Rasta hair.”

Yesterday the United States Embassy in Athens was bombed at 5:55 AM. It was the middle of the afternoon before I learned about this attack, and for some reason it seems to have struck a nerve that I didn’t know I had. I live about 10 minutes walk from the US Embassy, just on the other side of one of Athens’ two large hills. Because of this natural separation, I did not hear the explosion, which apparently shattered windows of nearby buildings. Despite the fact that I did not feel the force of the actual explosion, I am sure to feel the aftershocks for days to come, not only as I eat with friends who work at the Embassy, but as I think about what the bombing means to me as an American living abroad.

Here in Athens, there is a strong anti-American current that draws mutterings of disgust out of most Greeks, and news stories out of thin air. This distaste for America takes many forms, from casual remarks about American imperial culture to violent protests that culminate at the American Embassy. The anti-American sentiment can be somewhat understood coming from the mouths of Greeks, who lived under a brutal dictatorship in the 1970’s that was put in place by the CIA. However, the anti-American thoughts also run strong in many Americans, and I can’t count the times that I have heard Americans saying emphatically, “I am not American!” I am always a bit confused when I hear this. To be sure, American popular culture can be nauseating, American history as taught in our schools is a layering of falsehoods, American foreign policy is a nightmare, and the Americans that you remember seeing abroad were probably loud dense tubs. But America is also where each of us Americans comes from for better and for worse. We can hate our current political administration, we can read histories of slavery, of conquest, of secret wars, of how fast food is made, and we can feel unspeakably angry and disillusioned by what we thought was American, but this is precisely where we are lucky. We are allowed to learn! We are allowed to question! We have libraries, we have roads, we have free schools, garbage collection and machines that wash our clothes and do our dishes. Here in Athens, these things cannot be counted on. Garbage may or may not be picked up (the landfill is now full), libraries are not quite public, many people wash their clothes by hand, and as for the schools and roads, well, they leave much to be desired.

Greece is a proud country that has been pushed around in the past, and, perhaps as a result, is overly sensitive. The American Embassy is an easy symbol to push against. Several years ago, it was forced to move because of the level of violence that it attracted. It is now situated in a recessed compound behind a 9 foot steel fence, with a maze-like interior, and guards at every corner both outside and inside. It is an imposing structure. I have been there only once, and at that time was struck with the coldness of the building. Outside, there were long lines of people, Americans, and others each confusedly waiting, needing something, passport and papers in hand, unsure of what would happen once they entered after the long wait.

When I first heard that the American Embassy was bombed (to be precise, an anti-tank grenade was fired from a building across the six-lane street landing in a third floor toilet, narrowly missing the intended target of the large American seal on the outside of the building), my first reaction was, “Of course. Someone in Greece bombed the Embassy.” I was not surprised in the least. This casual reaction surprised me, and needs to be explained somewhat – explosives are commonly used in protests here, as is tear gas, loose rocks, bricks and police batons. In the three months that I have been in Athens, there have been at least three protests that have turned violent, and countless peaceful protests. There have also been multiple cases of fatal beatings (of immigrants) by police. I have tried to stay away from all of these protests, but living in the city center, it has been impossible. The whole center shuts down for large scheduled protests, and although there are usually warnings on television and radio of the places that have turned violent, I was once visiting a friend when her boyfriend staggered into the apartment coughing terribly. He had been walking home from work and making his way around a protest, he was unlucky to be present when the police threw tear gas. After hearing this, I re-doubled my efforts to steer clear. So, although it was not quite a shock when I heard that the Embassy had been attacked, it caught me off guard and struck me deeply.

I have lived in many places both within the United States, and externally, and never have I felt threatened because of my nationality. Because of my gender, yes; because of my language, ok; because of my skin color, certainly; but never because of my nationality. When I heard that the Embassy was attacked, however irrational it might have been, I felt a twinge of vulnerability. Walking through the twisting streets of the city center, I suddenly began to wonder if people around me could tell that I was American. Most people can tell that I am not Greek, but how many know that I am American? I felt naked. I felt unjustifiably nervous and exposed. I looked at the faces around me. Then I looked harder, and felt ashamed of my thoughts. I was in an immigrant neighborhood; most of the faces around me were not of individuals who had chosen to come to Athens. They were faces of people who had fled war, poverty, and social persecution. They were faces hardened by weather and hard work and discrimination. Once again, I was made aware of all the privilege that comes bundled in the package of being an American. We are the ones who can leave our country as we like, and return as easily. As silly as it sounds when uttered, we have the luxury to say, “I am not American,” whether at home or abroad. We are blessed if only for what we do not have to think about daily, and for the simply fact that we are all told, whether it is true or not, that we can realize our dreams.

The attack on the Embassy made me think about my identity as and American. I realized that I am proud of who I am, and therefore where I come from. As hard as it can be, the more I learn about the difficulties of the past and the flawed present, the more I dream for the future. I am not ashamed that I am American, nor am I afraid to say that there are many things that I do not like about the country in which I was born. But rather than make a laundry list with balled fists and feelings of disillusionment, I choose to take the other route, one which I can only hope will more powerful in the end. I choose to take my privilege and hold hands with the children with whom I am working. I choose to ask questions of strangers and listen to their responses. I choose to hug and eat with and build memories together with people from all over the world who happen to be my friends. I must believe that in the end, the boundless intelligence, love and strength in each of us will outweigh the rest, as long as we aren’t afraid of it.

It has been one month since I last posted anything on this site. Since then, too much has happened.