THAT WHICH GIVES MEANING TO LIFE GIVES MEANING TO DEATH
On 31/10 on the third floor of an apartment in Arcadia Street, during the processing of explosives by my comrade and insurgent Kyriakos Xymitiris, an explosion took place with tragic consequence of his death. Within a few minutes and while I happened to be in the next room, time froze, everything went black and I was unable to move. The condition incomprehensible, the development incomprehensible. Buried in the wreckage trying to figure out what happened. Asking for help, looking for my partner with my eyes. Slowly realizing that while the thread of my comrade’s action would be abruptly cut, his life and his choices of struggle would be a historic flash of determined resistance, consistency and dedication, a springboard and inspiration for struggle. Two figures appeared offering help while I showed them the spot where I last saw my comrade, the spot where our guilty gazes met, gazes full of anger at the world we live in, full of faith and appetite for moments of true freedom.
Within a few minutes I found myself in the hospital “Evangelismos”. I was immediately subjected to examinations and operations. A hematoma on my head and countless stitches on the upper part of my body. I remained intubated and completely unconscious for the next three days. Time enough for the “anti-“terrorist” bastards to rush to the hospital demanding a blood sample. On Monday, I regained consciousness and was transferred to the ICU where I remained immobilized for the next three days. The conditions there were decent with medical staff eager to assist in my recovery. However, the room was surrounded by police forces who entered the ICU room during the 5-minute visit from my family.
After two days I was transferred – for no apparent reason – to an isolation ward guarded by several static and as many moving cops in corridors and floors. The door to my room was constantly open leaving zero privacy even during medical examinations. Under the “watchful” gaze of every single cop I had to eat, be examined, and have my body cleaned. Following instructions, the majority of medical and nursing staff maintained a distant attitude, showing zero empathy even in the most basic things, such as conducting an examination without the presence of a male police officer.
The insistence of the 22nd interrogator of the Athens District Court on the conduct of the interrogation procedure despite my physical and mental weakness contributed to the vindictive atmosphere. After asking for a certificate of my sufficient ‘functionality’, which she read at her discretion, she finally gave me the arbitrary extension of 30 hours. She thus confirmed the fact that her priority was my predetermined pre-trial detention and prosecution under 187A.
On Friday 15/11 and just one day after the second operation I underwent, I was transferred to the women’s prison in Korydallos. My life, even under these conditions, was difficult. Under deplorable sanitary conditions and with unhealed wounds on my body and head, the repressive mechanism was playing with my health. Without the necessary medical care, without access to the necessary medication. A condition that all prisoners face as they are perceived as second-class citizens with no right to medical care, with superficial to non-existent medical examinations by prison doctors, with the prohibition of necessary medical procedures, with interruption of medication taken outside the walls, with long waits for months for emergency examinations in outpatient hospitals.
THE GEOMETRY OF THE ANTI-TERRORIST POLICE
Still unconscious, only a few hours after the explosion, the judicial apparatus is following the instructions of the anti-terrorist police and constructing an indictment of an abomination. The processing of (small amounts of) explosives and devices with only comrade Kyriakos and myself present and aware, was dubbed an organization. The apartment, to which we only had access for a few days, was christened a hideout. The legitimate objects found in the apartment where I lived with comrade Kyriakos and I and which were found on the eight people’s identity cards were dubbed suspicious. With these facts, the anti-terrorist police prosecuted me on the charge of “terrorism”. At this point, however, I will not focus on the legal part, nor will I speak in the context of innocence and guilt. I refuse to accept an indictment based on 187A especially when it instrumentalizes in the most vile way the death of my comrade. And I intend to deconstruct any repressive scenario. But I will defend to the end my choice to be in that apartment, I will defend the necessity of struggle by means not limited to the framework of civil law, I will defend my comrade’s choices, his memory and our relationship.
By carving concentric circles, the anti-terrorist police weaves its own repressive web. It places me and comrade Kyriakos in the centre and with a shaky geometry it places friends, comrades and strangers. In the first cycle it places the arrest of the anarchist comrade Dimitra (who presents herself voluntarily) in a Hollywood-style operation at the Athens airport where – in contrast to the femicide of Kyriaki Griva – the police car in the role of a taxi picks her up from the airport and takes her to the GADA. The only “clue” was the handing over of the keys of the apartment in Arkadia to me and Kyriakos under the pretext of hosting our acquaintances from abroad without knowing the purpose of its use. It is worth noting that on the day of the explosion she was abroad where she was living the last years of her life. She too is being prosecuted under 187A. In the second circle places the companion Dimitris who also presented himself voluntarily in the GADA handing over the pair of keys of the apartment in Arcadia to the owner which had been requested by Dimitra. With the only involvement of the delivery of the keys, without knowing anything more and being at work at the time of the explosion, he is also facing the aforementioned charges. Twenty days later, the anti-terrorist police secures the next cycle with the arrest of the anarchist comrade Nikos Romanos. In his case, the repressive mechanism unleashed its vengeance by using a melted fingerprint on a transportable object – a bag – found in the apartment in Arcadia. Two days later, the last cycle placed A.K. who was also arrested with the grey “clue” of the fingerprint on the same bag. Apparently the “efficiency” of the Greek police laboratories managed to implicate within 20 days two people with whom I have no connection by unearthing a fingerprint while the tons of xylene in the Tempi massacre have not been found for two years now. Both of the last two arrested are facing the same flimsy charge.
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