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
For my comrade Kyriakos X.
Goodbye comrade,
”You will be ashes, old world.
You’re destined for the path of destruction
And you can’t bend us
By killing our brothers in arms…
And know this
We will come out victorious
And even though our sacrifices
Are heavy”
Nazim Hikmet
Belatedly, I would like to write a few words about my comrade and companion for the past 6 years of my life, K. Xymitiris, who passed away in an apartment on Arkadias Street.
Together we struggled and shaped our opinions on anything that troubled us. I grew up with him, on a journey of discovering my combative identity. And Kyriakos was always by my side, not in front or in the back, but next to me. Holding my hand, supporting me, with his smile and his perspicacity. Always giving the correct answers while we were all mincing our words, clearing the landscape while we were all feeling lost. With a well-developed sense of solidarity, he always stood on the side of anyone who needed it, regardless of repression, being targeted, and his own comfort. Always first in all the struggles: against repression, gentrification, the labour sweatshops, colonialism, patriarchy, prisons. Indispensable as a comrade and as a friend, wherever he stood he filled the space with his modesty and militancy.
By advocating for unity in the struggle for the revolutionary cause, for confrontation, militancy and counter-attack, always with respect for those next to him, he made space where others suffocated. So he lived, at least by my side, militant and persistent, hopeful and smiling. Ready for everything, taking risks big and small, he gave his daily life to the struggle without a second thought.
Always by our side
to me, to his friends and his comrades, to anyone who needed him for the smallest or the biggest matter.
Always by our sideto take on the most tedious, the most risky role.Always by our side to hold our hand, to accompany us, to open the way.
Always by the sideof the migrant, the abused, the worker, the prisoner.
And always by my sideto support me, to help me, to listen to me, to struggle together with me, to hug me by pushing away the fear, to encourage me by pushing away the second thoughts, to fill the days and nights with comradeship and combativeness.
COMRADE KYRIAKOSNone of the goodbyes are enough. None of the texts can describe the pain of your loss. On 31/10 I was left half, on a path where I wanted you by my side. On 31/10 I lost that smile that only you knew how to evoke. On 31/10 I lost the hopefulness that only you could transmit to me. But on 31/10 I also made a promise to you, to me, to us and to so many others, that you would not be forgotten. On 31/10 I stayed behind to speak about you, about the struggle you gave and about those you did not manage to give. On 31/10 I raised up my fist and with my bloody mouth I vowed to STRUGGLE. On 31/10 I raised my fist and in the rubble of Arcadia Street I said KYRIAKOS XYMITIRIS, ALWAYS PRESENT!
”Our most beautiful days we haven’t seen yet.
And the most beautiful words I wanted to tell you
I haven’t said yet…”
Nazim Hikmet
With unconditional love
your comrade
Marianna M.
Source: athens.indymedia