Pass me a molotov
If any of you have ever lived in or visited Greece, or perhaps have watched television in the last year, you know that riots, protests and strikes are fairly common and normal. My paranoid self would travel no where on the planet where the US government issued a warning for its citizens not to visit, but I’ve made Greece an exception, and traveled there in the middle of the Kosovo war.
Love and its doppelgänger lust often make you the invincible warrior. I can’t really recall what brought me back there at such a time, but I do know I felt secure enough to go. I was on an errand and needed to collect some paper work from someone’s office so hopped on the bus and got off 2o minutes later at my stop. I stepped off, the doors closed. I felt a tad bit strange. I shrugged my shoulders, got on with my chore, and exited the office about 10 minutes later. I had just missed the bus- there it was chugging along one of the busiest streets in Athens, except there weren’t any other cars with it. Just as there weren’t any pedestrians in the street. Suddenly I realized that I was very, very alone in a place that should normally be packed with shoppers, trolley cars, mopeds, and Roma kids (gypsies) selling tissues and water. It was like walking out onto Times Square mid day and finding it’s empty.
Here we go, I told myself. Got cocky just because you can get by on some Greek and can pass? What’s that gonna do when a NATO bomb is dropped on your head? So I started walking down the block until I heard the marching groan of a mob–hundreds of feet pounding the pavement, angry chants, flags and banners whipping in the wind. I turned around and saw a sea of red surging slowly towards me. I told myself I better stop lest a molotov cocktail be tossed at me, and embraced the wave.
When the crowd arrived, I realized it was a communist party rally, peppered with some anarchists here and there, and the theme was anti-America and NATO bombings. I scanned the crowd, strategizing my move, eyed a flowing robe of black and matching conical hat, darted my way towards the Orthodox priest and walked in the shadow of his cross.
“Good child,” the priest said to me in Greek. “It’s a good cause you walk in.”
“Yes, it is” I repeated, hoping he wouldn’t detect or ask me about my accent. Keep it short.
“America is doing bad things.”
“Yes, it is.” I said again.
We walked like this for about 10 minutes, me trying to figure out when I could dart into a side street. When the protest curved left, I saw some traffic on my right, thanked the priest who blessed me well, and I scuttled on my way.
Greece always has protests-civil disobedience is ingrained in their stubborn little heads. And though I was alert and not taking anything for granted, I felt somewhat at ease with the whole situation. For that, I think I thank the priest.
I know some of you have some stories to share about civil disobedience.
