I got stuck in Athens during the two-day general strike in late June, and hard as I tried to stay away from Syntagma Square, where punks were throwing rocks at police and getting tear-gassed in return, I got caught up in the strike indirectly.
On the second day of the strike, I was walking back to my hotel before dark when I heard shouting and saw people running. A large Dumpster had been kicked over onto the street and set on fire. I’ve been to Athens many times, and I’d never seen anything like it.
The police roared through on motorbikes. Pedestrians sauntered by, continuing their casual conversations. One man actually laughed as he stepped through the trash.
Several men stood on the sidelines, including Yannis, the manager of the hotel where I stay. Something in me snapped.
“This isn’t acceptable!” I said in Greek.
I picked up one of the sides of a wooden crate and began scooping the litter away from the bin. Yannis called to me, “Leave it, Cynthia! Leave it for the police.”
“No!” I said. “We need to put it out now, before it gets bigger.”
I picked up a garbage bag and began packing it with aluminum and paper, bare-handed. Yannis called out to passing Pakistanis and Iraqis, offering them five euros to help me. Finally a young man stopped and started helping me separate the trash from the fire.
Suddenly Yannis appeared with a small fire extinguisher. He pointed the nozzle to the fire on the street and into the bin. The flames went down a bit. Another man appeared with a large bucket of water. Finally -- I had goaded them into action.
I like to sing the praises of Greeks. But the more I think about this incident, I can’t decide who makes me angrier -- the violent punks or the passive bourgeoisie.
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