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  • Posted on: 3 July 2019
  • By: M. Shimshon

From Armchair Terrorism

Hey, you know that guy you vaguely knew at the beginning of last summer? He’s trying to kill you now. Migrants, anarchists, tourists, police, mafias; beefs, boredom, business. What the fuck happened to this place. (no question mark). As I arrived again this summer in what had already become a romanticized haven, I discovered nothing was happening. That’s ok, it’s the end of the summer, I’ve been told. I go to the plateia and notice a distinctive lack of any women, or even hippies for that matter, all I hear is, “mavro, mavro, thelis mavro” (black, black, you want black). Black means weed, because darkness represents everything underground, not let into the market or proper channels, even in Greece. The plateia used to be the place of joyous friction, where everyone would gather, drink, share their stories, escape from riots, etc. Now it is a marketplace and nothing else. I left feeling naseaus and nervous.