Monday, November 18, was the day when time stopped for me once again. Hooded anti-terrorism officers, handcuffs, holding cells, television cameras, news bulletins, journalistic scripts, police theories. Behind this familiar pattern and the communicative storm of guilt, there is another reality.
They are the wounds that resurface and multiply, shattering families, destroying human relationships, annihilating dreams, hopes, plans of a life condemned once again to the death of frozen time.
Because the language of truth cannot be hidden, I repeat, I deny the indictment in its entirety. An unfounded, baseless, exaggerated, and unsubstantiated indictment that arises abusively, creating more questions than it actually answers. Following the established political logic of the anti-terrorism law, which creates a category of defendants that exists outside the legal system, since everyone is guilty until proven innocent. The language spoken by the system has already issued its verdict. I became a wandering trophy for all kinds of exploitation. An exhibit in the showcases of the museums of lies and oblivion. With the label of “terrorist” hanging on the annex “guilty of all times,” for observation by usually naive, but mainly scared and peace-loving visitors.
For those who gamble with human lives in the dice of a vulgar and shameless political game, for those who believe that the power they hold gives them the ability to crush souls for their own reasons, I will reiterate the obvious.
From the bloodied pedestrian street of Messolonghi, the interrogation offices, the gray corridors of the prisons, the court benches, the slow death of confinement. From the choices I made with all my soul, choices etched in real blood, at great cost and with unyielding knees, I do not yield an inch.
It is part of the history of a generation of people who revolted and on whose backs, large parts of the political system washed away its sins by hanging it out to dry on the lines of repressive and media cannibalism.
But now I am not in prison because I made conscious choices that carried corresponding risks. On the contrary, my life is sold as a political product, on the shelf of the communication supermarket, with the price of the bag charged to me, waiting for prospective voters to shop piece by piece until the next time.
It is truly sad for me (and not just me) that I will be called upon to prove that I am not an elephant, having an impending sentence hanging over my head that will condemn me to live again, for an indefinite period, as a prisoner.
I have lived half of my adult life in prison. I will not passively accept this such an unfair statistic, consisting of much pain and countless loneliness, to cover me in concrete and bars.
I will not accept extreme measures like pre-trial detention without a legal and political battle to win back my life.
In this hasty and necessary initial statement, I want to thank from the depths of my heart those who stood by me with selfless love. The fight for my vindication and my definitive release from this unjust indictment now begins.
In conclusion…
Honor to those who in their lives have appointed and guard the Thermopylae. Never moving from duty; just and upright in all their actions, but with sorrow and compassion; brave when they are rich, and when they are poor, still somewhat brave, again assisting as much as they can; always speaking the truth, but without hatred for the liars. And more honor is due to them when they foresee (and many foresee) that the Ephialtes will appear in the end, and the Medes will finally cross.
Constantine Cavafy
Source: athens.indymedia
