The riots of 17th of November 2016. Exarcheia, Athens, Greece.

Photo Credit: Δάφνη Πασσίση-Κοκότ, Νατάσα Κούμη

Exarcheia as a community fights the good fight — a fight for autonomy in general, and a cop-free community in particular. The latter is an idea recently proposed by the Black Lives Matter movement, and I have this to say to the activists trying to make it a reality: cop-free communities are possible, they have been created before, and some communities — like the one I call home — have achieved it. The trick is to continuously fight for it.

November 17th is a commemoration of the events of 1973, when students went on strike against Greece’s military regime: a dictatorial rule which had abolished civil rights, dissolved political parties and exiled, imprisoned and tortured citizens based on their political beliefs (all supported by Nixon and his United Snakes). To try and end the strike, the army killed 24 people around the polytechnic and crashed through the university entrance with a tank — the mangled gates at the entrance remain as evidence of the carnage to this day.

Saturday, November 17, 1973. The area is surrounded by tanks at 1 a.m. and the Polytechnic radio station broadcasts: “Don’t be afraid of the tanks”, “Down with fascism.” People cling to the gates, and the tank moved forward regardless.

My husband and I went to the Polytechnic to join the commemorations on the 17th— no great bother, we live a couple of blocks away. We weaved our way through flower vendors selling roses to place at the memorial, and old communists sitting behind their stalls full of pamphlets, literature and petitions.

Photo credit: Ορέστης Σεφέρογλου

As night approached, the university gates shut once more, and the crowd that had gathered during the day were replaced by riot cops. Hundreds of them — anonymous — underneath gas masks, helmets, shields, batons and riot guns.

By 7pm we were in Platia Exarchion, the neighbourhood’s central square, and preparing to settle in and see what the night would bring. We didn’t really have a choice at this point, the cops had kettled us all, but we had the essentials regardless. For one, the peripteros (kiosks) in Exarcheia remain open, riot or no riot. We bought a packet of cigarettes from a young lady with long black curls pushed back by a full face gas mask. One periptero only 20 metres from the square, but in the no man’s land between rioters and cops, was completely engulfed in flames — location, location, location. We also had our pick from two bottle stores on the square, and as people walked through the clouds of tear gas and smoke it was difficult to tell apart the Molotovs from the Alpha beers. To help our neighbours better camouflage their weapons, we decided to drink.

Exarchion Square is both a blessing and a curse for urban warfare. Though it’s protected on one side by a massive hill (Lofos Strefi — whose summit lets you see all of Athens), the Square is fed by multiple side streets — ten, in fact — which means there are many entries and exits for rioters, but just as many for cops to attack from. The police were relentlessly unoriginal in their tactics: Exarcheia is surrounded by police every day of the year, 24 hours a day — but on particular nights, like this one, they simply circle closer and closer towards the epicentre of Platia Exarchion. How far the boundary goes depends on the rioters within, and this tidal line is newly set by every confrontation. It’s really a numbers game — the more people inside the square, the more they can protect every street, and the more that cops can be pushed back.

Photo credit: Aλέξανδρος Αβραμίδης

The mood was pretty jolly all things considered. This was the third night of rioting since Obama had been in town — Greece being his last presidential trip — and many folks thought to welcome him by protesting his organised murder (known within the USA as ‘foreign policy’), as well as the combined clusterfuck of NATO, the EU, the IMF and the Euro. The riots during Obama’s visit tried to reach the ultra-protected American embassy to no avail. But it hadn’t all been in vain — a cop van had been broken into and riot helmets and shields appropriated, ceremoniously displayed on Platia Exarchion’s statues throughout the day.

Photo credit: Ορέστης Σεφέρογλου

These riot accessories were now in practical use against their original owners as part of the riot cycle: police advance, fire tear gas, retreat from molotov flames and, repeat. The cops did this simultaneously down multiple streets at times, and it was a matter of luck and numbers that the right street was defended at the right time. Communication was key — with no leaders, it was important that people yelled for help only when it was needed. A younger boy at one point was chided for overreacting and screaming for help unnecessarily, another for kicking down a young tree so it could act as firewood. It was cold — cold for Athens anyway — and fires served the dual purpose of forming flaming barricades and keeping the neighbourhood toasty. But what to set on fire? Not the trees. The community planted them, the community protects them. In this way, all were in agreement. Save the trees.

Photo credit: Ορέστης Σεφέρογλου

Without a gas mask, or molotovs, or even a good throwing arm, I decided to help with the fires. Specifically, one of the small fires in the middle of the square that served as a temporary sanctuary from the riot. Temporarily blinded by tear gas from the front lines, my comrades took a moment to rest in front of the hungry flames as I offered them tissues and napkins — even crisps — like some sort of riot agony aunt, and the snotty napkins were flung back into the fire to keep it going. Soon Molotovs were being prepared next to me, and more characters joined us seeking warmth — one of them being a young refugee boy. Exarcheia is a safe space for many refugees escaping Syria and other repressive regimes in the Middle East. Whilst the Greek State has forced most refugees into the glorified prisons they call ‘camps’, the residents of Exarcheia have squatted buildings — even empty hotels, like City Plaza — and welcomed hundreds of refugees to stay in the neighbourhood. Before Merkel went back on her promise to accept Syrian refugees, Athens was a quick stop on the way to Germany. With the borders now closed, Exarcheia is reluctantly called home. The young refugees are here to return the favour, helping to defend the neighbourhood which took them in.

The Syrian boy — not more than 14 — asked us for a cigarette. He was loving the whole thing — what could go wrong? The last time the cops had decided to murder a young person in cold blood inside Exarcheia was in 2008–

15-year-old Alexandros Grigoropoulos — and the riots that followed were some of the worst in recent Greek history. In a way, Alexandros’ death protected all of us — for how long only the next murder will show us. When the cops finally got a tear gas canister into the innards of the Square, we all abandoned the fire in haste. I didn’t run away fast enough though — pushed out of the way from someone behind me, and panicked to find my husband, the gas hit me at its full force. As soon as we found each other again, including the young Syrian lad, we tried to seek cover down another side street, only to be met by another round of tear gas fired at us even closer than before. We were left with no choice but to keep on running aimlessly with tears and snot and spit coming out of every orifice on our faces.

Photo credit: Ορέστης Σεφέρογλου

Tear gas hurts. But there’s always someone around offering tissues and checking up on the temporarily blinded — solidarity wins the day. Many Exarcheian natives choose to avoid this drama and buy gas masks. They are the vanguard — as anonymous as the police they are facing, throwing Molotovs and marble. These shenanigans are the status quo of my new neighbourhood. Better put, they are necessary to protect the status quo, and the owners of local businesses show their solidarity by staying open. You could still get a souvlaki mid-riot, which we did. It was delicious. While stuffing our mouths, we watched the restaurant’s delivery drivers using lemon juice under their eyes to help with the effects of the tear gas. Food ready, they would hop on their scooters and drive off through the no man’s land between the cops and rioters — whoever ordered the takeout were heartless bastards or fucking clueless, I’ll never know. I took more napkins than I needed from the restaurant to offer around for the next wave of tears.

Photo credit: Θανάσης Καμβύσης

By 11 pm, everything was quieting down. We were able to find a gap in the police line and return home. All of the surrounding streets had been blocked from traffic so we had the roads to ourselves on our walk back.

And so, Exarcheia was defended another night. Why? I think it’s because a peaceful multicultural neighbourhood faced with violent repression can only be defended with violence. No apologies. Between equal rights, force decides. The students in 1973 knew that a different world is possible if you’re willing to fight for it — so fight for it. The most pressing need within our community is currently for volunteers and donations to help with the refugee squats — please consider helping however you can.

Viva la revolución! Viva Exarcheia!