Greece is a famous touristic destination and probably the majority of us would have some memories connected to this country. Perhaps a lot of us when we remind Greece we bring to our minds acropolis, beautiful landscapes, sunny beaches, muzaka, giros and cheerful people… But is Greece just this? Are all Greek people open-minded with foreigners? What about the “Greek” memories, are they always happy?
Unfortunately not. They are many immigrants in this beautiful land confessing the opposite. The UN Refugee Agency in Greece is trying to protect these people and to promote the human rights holding out a campaign. Economic crises in Greece provoked something even worst, a value crisis. People mixed up with values and cannot detect what is right and what is wrong, who is responsible and who has to pay the price?
During this vulnerable period, the Golden Dawn got the chance to gain popularity, to enforce fascism and to make a majority of Greek people believe that being a racist is not a crime. They can be violent to them, ignore the human rights and express their racism in every way in order to protect their nation.
Surfing the net I came across a really interesting article which revealed a hidden reality. There I found testimonials of people from different nations that make the painful decision to immigrate to Greece. In order not to be plagiarist I will display you one of these.
It is impossible to endure, and I do not know how I did it for more than a year … They left me 20 km away from Patra. Walking barefoot is the smallest penalty the police can you impose. Apart from the daily torture we had to deal with other similar things, the first was to eat. For hours in front of the bins near the supermarket in the hope that something will be thrown away or at flea markets trying to collect things that were sorting out, otherwise we could not have the strength to get through it for an entire day trying to port and let Greece.
All these because we did not have money and the police prevented everyone who wanted to bring us food. Sometimes, the policemen made attacks in the factory and other abandoned places where Afghans were gathered destroying everything, blankets, clothes, tents burnt, food thrown on the ground. They chased children and the luckiest returned after a few hours or days swollen from being kicked or the most unlucky went to the hospital. I still remember one boy being arrested in port, taken to the police truck and the rest could only be imagined, after a little like corpse was dragged and dumped on the roadside and the ambulance came and took it from there.
One day a friend of mine and me were trying to escape from Greece hiding under a truck. Unfortunately, I got trapped by the police. One of them came with dogs and attacked me, ripping my pants. Being in panic I tried to run away, but suddenly I got sprayed in the face. I felt burning my face, especially my eyes. I spent eight hours before I could open my eyes and my friends told me that a lady had seen me tucked under the truck and alerted the police.
The other guy had a worst luck, he was dragged down by the fence with the barbed wire while he was trying to escape, causing injuries to his face and head knocking him violently. Between the policemen, there was a man who we used to call “my friend” because once he told us: “When you see me you have to run away because otherwise my colleagues accuse me of being mild to you”.
Probably for a lot of you this is an unpleasant shocking history, but for Patrasso this is a “Greek” memory that he wishes to forget.
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