The Athenian Prosfygika is one of the largest squats in the world. Here, anarchists, leftists, and migrants have established direct democracy based on the old Greek tradition of constant plebiscites and the power of popular assemblies. The 'New Democracy,' the liberal-right party ruling Greece, has vowed to end all such spaces. They have already managed to clear the formerly anarchic Exarcheia district. Now, only Prosfygika remains, its residents surrounded by special police units. However, Prosfygika is supported not only by its inhabitants; large demonstrations are being held in Athens and cities around the world. Journalist Nico Rotor visited Prosfygika and, specially for 'Nova-Europe,' describes what the Athenians' struggle for a unique social space looks like from the inside, with the main slogan: 'We will win or we will win.' Prosfygika residents play football. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community.Framing - 9:00 AM On the sidewalk of the wide Alexandras Avenue in Athens, which separates the Apostolos Nikolaidis Stadium from the Prosfygika squat, I sit on a folding black chair, squinting my eyes against the bright sun. Around me are five members of the Squatted Prosfygika Community, their vests printed with birds in gas masks. The avenue is filled with passersby, whose everyday hustle is interrupted by announcements from a loudspeaker: 'Prosfygika is a community of refugees! The state wants to destroy us! We will not let them!' The morning for these participants began not with breakfast, but with a protest. They are positioned here to conduct so-called 'framing'—engaging with people, telling them about the situation. Aristotelis Handzis, one of Prosfygika's first residents, is on an indefinite hunger strike against the gentrification of the Ambelokipi district, which entails the eviction and destruction of the squat. Aristotelis has lived in Prosfygika for over a decade. For him, it is both home and organization. A forty-year-old Greek, he has traveled to Syrian Kurdistan several times and actively participated in the revolutionary events there. In conversation, he often shares simple wisdom, always direct. 'We have an expression [in Greece]: I planted an olive tree so my grandchildren could eat olives. This is what we have been doing for 16 years [in Prosfygika],' he said in an interview. He called his action 'Hunger strike until death—for life.' It began on February 5, and by the end of June, he weighed 35 kilograms, becoming a symbol of Prosfygika. Black eight-meter banners with white-painted calls for support and resistance hang from the roof of the three-story building where the protest point is located. Many other banners are around: stretched between trees, on the fence between the road and the sidewalk. Two anarchists in yellow vests hand out leaflets to passersby Athenians and ask them to sign a petition against the eviction of Prosfygika. Two more guard the protest perimeter, and one hunger striker hides with me from the sun under a military tarpaulin tent. Her name is Suzan Dupain, she is from Belgium. She has green eyes and Slavic features. She says she is often mistaken for Ukrainian and admits that perhaps 'long ago there were Ukrainian roots in the family.' Suzan moved to Prosfygika from Belgium six years ago. View of one of Prosfygika's buildings. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community. 'A truly open community is being built here. In Western Europe, many are focused on their personal lives, and leftists are often confined to subculture. Here, people are working on a socially important project and dedicating their lives to it,' says Suzan. Suzan has joined Handzis's hunger strike. Since May 1, her daily diet has consisted of water, tea, a spoonful of sugar and salt, vitamins, and electrolytes. Suzan, the four activists around, and approximately four hundred other people along the banner-covered side of the avenue are participants of the Squatted Prosfygika Community, a self-organized socio-political movement created sixteen years ago. Prosfygika consists of eight three-story buildings in the historic city center, built a hundred years ago for Greeks fleeing Asia Minor from the genocide committed by the Turks. In the 1940s, Greek partisans fought fascists here, as evidenced by bullet holes in the walls. In the late 1990s, the Greek government attempted to demolish the district, evicting 177 out of 228 apartments, but the remaining residents organized a campaign to preserve Prosfygika. They succeeded—the district is considered an official monument of culture and history. Vacant apartments were then squatted by homeless people, migrants, and anarchists, while drug cartels took over some of the buildings. In one of Prosfygika's buildings, they set up a methamphetamine production facility. The area became criminalized and dangerous. But in the late 2000s, after the severe political and economic crisis in Greece, amid the largest protest movement in modern Greek history, the squatters united into an organization to protect the district and its residents, ousted the mafia, and created a living socio-political alternative to the Greek state in Athens' urban landscape. Currently, the Prosfygika community offers residents of these three buildings collective protection of their living space. Residents and community members guard the territory, engage in human rights work, including representing residents in court, maintain contact with social movements in different countries, organize public campaigns and actions, and create living conditions for the most vulnerable groups: refugees, the elderly, children, and patients requiring long-term treatment. They are also creating a museum of the Greek Civil War of the 1940s there. The framing shift is ending. As participants rotate at their post, police vans with burly men in green uniforms and white helmets drive along the avenue. The buses say POLICE. The police are also changing shifts; the buses are coming from the GADA (Attica General Police Directorate) police base, located nearby, literally two hundred meters to the right of Prosfygika. To the left of the community is the Supreme Court of Greece. MAT (riot police) officers are being transported to the Exarcheia district to intimidate and assault people—to maintain order. For the last seven years, the liberal-right party 'New Democracy,' led by Prime Minister Kyriakos Mitsotakis, has been in power in Greece. Its ratings have significantly dropped in recent years due to double standards during COVID, the cover-up of the Tempi train disaster, repressive policies against the opposition, and mass surveillance of journalists. The party's achievement is transforming a corrupt Greece from a cheap country in Southern Europe into an expensive one (a fact confirmed by the Prime Minister himself). A key point of the party's program is the gentrification of Exarcheia, a district of leftists and anarchists that used to house about a hundred squats. Almost all of them have been evicted in recent years. This was accompanied by fierce battles with the police, which I witnessed four years ago. The protests took place within the narrow streets of the district and gathered about a thousand people. Anarchists used Molotov cocktails, and the police responded with tear gas and batons. In the end, the police prevailed, and the former squat buildings began to be sold or leased long-term to foreign investors. Exarcheia is now a tourist district where one can find Airbnb apartments at attractive prices. But this did not satisfy 'New Democracy's' appetite. The next target is Prosfygika. Panorama of Prosfygika. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community.Delivery - 11:30 AM It's not possible to just live in Prosfygika—daily work in its many initiatives is required. Therefore, participants' days are scheduled to the hour. I, of course, am no exception. I pick up a bag of fresh bread from the 'Berkin Elvan' bakery, named in memory of a teenager killed by Turkish police during protests against the gentrification of Gezi Park in Istanbul. The small bakery operates on the first floor of one of the buildings; every morning, it bakes fresh bread and pastries for the community residents and surrounding areas. A young transgender person from Poland hands me a blue courier bag. 'In general, many participants are involved in five or even more structures. Today you have a shift at the bakery, tomorrow you work at the school, and in the evening you're on guard duty.' 'How are you, Kristina?' I ask her. 'I don't know what to do. My parents are demanding I come home.' 'And what do you think about that?' 'Living here—in the community—was my first independent and free decision in life. That's what I think.' I sling the bag over my motorcycle and head down the wide Alexandras Avenue towards Exarcheia. On the way, I overtake two DIAS (motorcycle battalion of rapid response police) units and manage to run a red light turning into the narrow streets of the old center. They are not visible in the rearview mirrors—they didn't follow. I ease off the gas; the motorcycle's straight-through muffler begins to pop and sputter with short bursts, echoing through the concrete district. I reach a four-meter-high, ugly gray metal fence with barbed wire, enclosing a vast empty lot. This used to be Exarcheia Square—the starting point for anarchist demonstrations. Now it's a bare wasteland. Under the pretext of metro construction, city authorities cut down all the trees here and leveled everything. The metro has not been built on this site, and the former square remains fenced off. The square is surrounded on all sides by cafes with Palestinian and black-red flags, and every evening and night, this fence is guarded by a platoon of MAT. I enter one of these establishments and hand the bag to a Kurdish cook named Dalil. As he unloads the bread, he shares news from Syrian Kurdistan (or Rojava, as Kurds call it)—Syrian authorities have recognized Kurdish as one of the state languages and allowed its use in schools and other institutions. Orchestra concert in the courtyard of Prosfygika. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community. 'This is very good; it's a great day for our people! We can now speak and learn in our language. A great day!' Dalil repeats. The community has strong ties not only with this Kurdish cafe but with the entire Kurdish resistance. Many of its members fought in Syrian Kurdistan and helped as internationalists, and many are from there themselves. In the first Prosfygika building, there is a museum-apartment dedicated to Haukur Hilmarsson—an anarchist and participant in the Kitchenware Revolution in Iceland, who fought for the liberation of Raqqa from the Islamic State forces. Before traveling to Kurdistan, he lived in Prosfygika and died in 2018 under Turkish shelling in Afrin. Saying goodbye to the Kurds, I say, 'Spas!'—'thank you' in Kurdish. On the way back, I meet a dozen acquaintances on the streets, connected to Prosfygika in various ways: refugees, activists, sympathetic neighbors of the squat. Before arriving in Athens, I imagined local life only through anarchist Instagram content: clashes with cops, Molotov cocktails, masked demonstrations. Upon arrival, I saw that Prosfygika is focused on improving the daily lives of those who, in conditions of extreme poverty and police arbitrariness, have created self-organized structures. In total, there are 22 such structures in Prosfygika, each addressing a specific community need. The technical structure ensures constant maintenance and upkeep of buildings and infrastructure. The women's structure focuses on protecting women and queer individuals and operates a shelter. The solidarity group prepares and distributes food to dozens of people in central Athens five days a week. Finally, the pet care structure monitors pet health, provides temporary housing, and facilitates adoptions. Prosfygika has a kindergarten and a school, operating daily and, importantly, free of charge for children in the squat and surrounding areas. In addition to the school, there's a social center for weekly community meetings and a library. There's also a medical point and a social pharmacy, cooperating with social clinics and healthcare worker unions across Greece, as well as a free hostel for patients of the 'Agios Savvas' Oncology Hospital. Lastly, there's a cooperative cafe and a film club for children and adults. All these structures are collectively owned. Life is bustling here. I'm just beginning to grasp what's happening around me. Guest House - 12:30 PM I live and eat at Prosfygika's men's guesthouse—a two-room apartment for internationalists. Access is through a massive welded structure of pipes and rebar; at night, it's further barricaded with crossbars. It has one large common room, a small kitchen, and a bedroom. The windows face both sides of the building; there's also a balcony, piled with bricks and stones in case the police arrive. The rooms have two beds each. On the shelves are flags from demonstrations, a first-aid kit with masks and anti-tear gas supplies, and various other domestic items: batons, gas masks, helmets, slingshots, revolutionary literature. This building used to house a methamphetamine lab. Opposite it is a hospital with a substitution therapy unit for drug addicts. Just 15 years ago, street drug dealing flourished here. But anarchists drove out the mafia after hard-fought battles, and strict rules have been in place since then. During the two months I stayed there, men from Russia, Serbia, Slovakia, and even Chile passed through the guesthouse. Currently, there are two Germans here; in the evenings, I teach them to play 'durak' (a card game). In fact, there are so many German internationalists here that there's a joke that you need to learn German before going to Prosfygika. All products are shared, and conflicts over dirty dishes or cleaning never arise. In general, one's attitude towards property and individualism changes after just a couple of weeks in Prosfygika. For instance, every Monday, Prosfygika holds a general assembly, open to non-residents as well. It lasts at least five hours, and anyone can speak, including to criticize anyone or anything. The meeting is held in Greek and English, with simultaneous translation (upon request and availability) into other languages used in the community, most often Turkish, Arabic, Albanian, Spanish, and Russian. 'Our common language is resistance' is one of the community's mottos. All ideas and proposals from each of the 22 structures are submitted to the assembly. For each issue, a common position is developed through lengthy discussion, a responsible working group is formed, and it begins its work with the approval of the community members present at the assembly. Initially, such collectivism causes resistance and stress: egocentric impulses lead nowhere good here. But on the other hand, there's a sense that every person here is cared for, and everyone is responsible for each other. This has an invaluable educational effect on many guests, even adults, of Prosfygika. The windows of our guesthouse overlook a courtyard with flowers, and opposite is a kindergarten and school. It's break time now; children are playing ball games, tag, and badminton in the playground. This is the first squat I've seen with so many children, and where I hear children's laughter daily. The squat is over sixteen years old; some were born and raised here. I wonder what they will become? Tempi - 1:00 PM Everyone is talking about Tempi. Today marks another anniversary of Greece's largest railway disaster, which killed 57 people. People blame the entire system for the catastrophe: the government, state structures, OSE, Hellenic Train, and politicians who for years failed to ensure safety and then tried to conceal the extent of responsibility and cover their tracks. Clash between Prosfygika participants and a special police unit. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community. Sven, my neighbor—a lanky, kind lad from Bremen—rushes into the kitchen. He's very young, it's his second time in Prosfygika, and he's already adapted well. The first time was harder; in Germany, he was used to living at home and only occasionally participating in political actions. Here, he lives in a continuous direct action, which is entirely different. In Athens, Sven threw his first Molotov cocktail. 'Wearing contact lenses to a demonstration is a bad idea,' I tell him. 'It's better than my big glasses, which I could lose in the chaos. Then I'd be blind.' 'Alright, you know best. We should get going.' We go upstairs—to the Prosfygika dining hall, where a briefing for the demonstration is taking place. It begins with instructions on the general plan and rules: anarchists will march in one solid column on foot to Syntagma Square, Athens' main square, stick together in all situations, and leave together. If someone needs to step away, they must inform one of the three designated coordinators—'field commanders.' Before leaving, briefing participants write their names on a piece of paper for lawyers, so they can be easily found in case of arrest. At the exit of the dining hall, activist Rosa treats plastic safety glasses with anti-fog spray and distributes them. Rosa is a Greek, a permanent community member, about 30 years old, with curly hair and dreadlocks at the back. During demonstrations, her loud voice is heard strongest when she leads chants. Rosa is part of the community's medical structure; she accompanies Prosfygika residents to medical facilities—primarily the poor and undocumented refugees without insurance—and advocates for their equal access to healthcare. 'The briefing was excellent; now the main thing is not to forget the banner,' says Rosa. 'Once, we went to a demonstration very organized and confident, walked for twenty minutes through the city, chanting slogans, and suddenly realized we didn't have the banner with us.' 'Can you imagine? We just forgot a huge five-meter banner on a wooden frame; none of the twenty people remembered it. We had to go back.' This time, no one forgets the banner. A column of forty people lines up in front of the building, two abreast, and begins its march towards the city center. They walk through the city, continuously chanting slogans like 'Down with hands off Prosfygika!' and 'Either we win, or we win!' Athenians peek out of windows to watch, and some emerge from barbershops and cafes to shake the demonstrators' hands. Today is a day when most Greeks are against the state. The group emerges from the narrow streets of Exarcheia onto a wide avenue opposite an ancient building with huge marble columns—the Academy of Athens. There, police stop and surround them. In front are about twenty patrol officers and OPKE (counter-terrorism unit); behind are four DIAS motorcycle units. They demand documents and conduct a full search. Members of Prosfygika's legal structure begin arguing about the illegality of the police's actions, then give participants instructions: consent only to a superficial search, do not let them proceed further. The police pay special attention to me, finding my Georgian anti-fog spray for glasses and trying to understand what's written on it. I tell the officer it's a harmless item, take it back, and wish them well. It's unclear who is more nervous—the police or the anarchists. Everyone is released, and for a minute, the column walks in tense silence, but then resumes chanting: 'Either we win, or we win!' The entire center is cordoned off by police forces; two hundred meters from the square, shop windows vibrate from the noise. The Prosfygika column takes its place in the center, moving through an endless number of different political groups, each with its banners and flags—it's very hot in this crowd. But there are fewer people today than last year. German Hubert worries that the protest is waning. Hubert arrived in Prosfygika much earlier than many other compatriots, back in 2020, when his group went to the Greek-Turkish border to protest against violence towards migrants. He's a thirty-year-old tall, lean guy in glasses, dressed as if he just left the office. He spends six months in Athens and six months in Berlin. Two hours pass anxiously. The police either stand still or put on helmets and form up for dispersal. When they put on gas masks, demonstrators put on masks and helmets. And when the police take them off, the demonstrators do too. 'Hubert, look, they (the MAT unit) are forming up again,' I say. 'Last year, they just started throwing stun grenades at the square at a random moment. There were no provocations, nothing happened. People were just standing in the square listening to the speakers from the podium—and then it started.' 'Were there many people last year?' 'Yes, very many. Today, it seems not so many, at least when we were walking here, it was unclear.' 'Look,' I show him a photo taken from a drone. The entire Syntagma Square and adjacent streets are filled with people. According to estimates, over a hundred thousand people attended the demonstration. 'Wow, nice,' Hubert smiles contentedly. 'We're calmly preparing to leave, pass it on,' say participants from the Prosfygika group to those behind them. The designated coordinator raises a hand—a signal to move. The column moves through the crowd, but no longer in as orderly a formation as before, heading towards the historic center, an old park, to avoid possible police ambushes. Ten minutes later, a beautiful view of the Parthenon opens up, and the sound of stun grenades exploding is heard in the distance. The square has begun to be dispersed. Technical Structure - 5:00 PM After returning to Prosfygika, we take a group photo in front of the first building. A respectable man approaches us, surrounded by an entourage, asking how he can help the community. I pull Rosa aside and ask, 'Who is that?' 'That's [Yorgos] Lanthimos, a very famous director. Haven't you seen 'The Lobster'? He saw us at the demonstration and wants to help us.' I'm surprised. After some time, Lanthimos and his colleagues released a statement in support of Prosfygika, signed by over two hundred cultural figures (directors, actors, musicians, artists), including Haris Alexiou (famous singer and 'golden voice of Greece') and actor Vasilis Bisbikis. Prosfygika participants. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community. German Elena messages me: 'Could you help me with some electrical work today?' She is part of the community's technical structure, responsible for repairing and maintaining all eight squatted buildings—from installing light fixtures to roof repairs. Elena came from East Germany; she has a massive bun of light hair and an exaggerated sense of responsibility. Back home, she organized underground parties and was a member of the anarcho-syndicalist union FAU. She has lived in Prosfygika for two years and speaks Greek fluently. We meet her in the apartment of refugees from Afghanistan. There's no light, the plaster is crumbling, and the kitchen is eaten by mold. In the hallway, Elena stands on a washing machine, checking the wiring with a multimeter. A week ago, after the rain, the electricity went out: the old wiring had corroded and was providing 100 volts instead of the required 220. Municipal services are in no hurry to help Prosfygika because it doesn't pay for electricity. Therefore, members of the technical structure dug trenches for high-voltage wires and rewired the buildings. Refugee Abdullah lives here with his brothers, but he calls me brother too—and gives me Red Bull and a pack of Marlboros. He says I can call him anytime, and he'll help me. While I install the outlet, he shows me photos of his family who remained in Afghanistan. Elena finishes replacing the electrical wiring. We check the voltage again—this time it's good. We move on to Petr, an elderly man who strongly resembles Hemingway and constantly smokes a pipe. He's Greek, lived in Russia and Georgia, and knows Russian. But the circumstances of his life before Prosfygika are as vague as his consciousness. 'How are you, Petr?' I ask him. 'The prosecutor is doing well; we are doing petty things,' he replies with a hearty laugh. 'I talked to Putin yesterday; he said he'll open the borders soon. I'm going home.' Petr often reminisces about his large house—either in Anapa or Tetri-Tskaro, where he grew tons of grapes and made wine from them. He lives in the first block; his apartment is cluttered with junk like old electric motors and other household trash from dumpsters, which he disassembles and sells for scrap metal. He used to sleep on a park bench, but the squatters gave him housing. 'Yesterday, that Polish bitch came to me and started yelling that there's no light in the building because of me!' he complains about his upstairs neighbors while Elena and I run a cable through his apartment. 'Take care of him. I'll do the electrics, you provide psychological support, okay?' Elena says and leaves to change the circuit breakers in the fuse box. Petr doesn't need light from us, but rather company. The elderly here are very lonely, and the community tries to support them. They are no longer needed by anyone else. Elena finishes with the central electrical panel in the stairwell and asks me to flip the switch. I go up to Petr's apartment, and we give him light. He shouts, 'Hooray!' and everyone laughs. After work, Elena and I have coffee on the stairs in the courtyard. 'And you're also part of the medical structure?' I ask. 'I can help there too. I used to work as an EMT.' 'Come to the assembly; it's every Saturday.' 'How long did you work as an EMT? Did you study somewhere? Are you a doctor?' 'I thought you were a computer guy.' 'I studied medicine before.' 'I also studied to be an obstetrician. But I could never work in a hospital. The hierarchy there is very rigid, and I can't stand it.' A woman with a small child approaches. She's a refugee from Venezuela, a recent member of the community. Prosfygika gave her an apartment. The child reaches for Elena and sits on her lap. Bakery 'Berkin Elvan,' cooperating with Prosfygika. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community. For the woman from Venezuela and her child, one of the vacant apartments was squatted and repaired. All necessary furniture and appliances were brought from their own warehouse. On the last day before handing over the apartment to the refugee, the 'owners' arrived at Prosfygika. They threatened to call the police, but after a conversation, it turned out the owners had no documents for the apartment. 'How much do you earn?' I ask Elena when the refugee takes her child and leaves. 'I don't have a regular job. I mainly work in the community, and I don't get paid for it,' Elena replies. 'But the community provides me with housing, food, and so on, one way or another.' 'Sometimes I take on side jobs from friends as an electrician in the area. Sometimes we all go work together—for example, unloading something at a store or cleaning. And I had a huge record collection, and I'm selling it.' 'Were you a DJ?' 'Yes.' 'How long have you been living here?' 'Two years.' 'Why did you move here? Do you think the Greek movement is stronger than the German one?' 'The Greek movement, no, not stronger than the German one. But Prosfygika—yes.' 'And what does Prosfygika give you in general?' 'Hope for some changes in this world.' Security - 2:00 AM Many in the community need protection and care daily: the elderly, children, people with mental health problems. Here I met Eleonora, a Georgian emigrant of Russian origin. She is old, sick, and has no documents. She lives in the same building as the internationalists; I was introduced to her as a translator. Eleonora speaks very little Greek; Greeks make her anxious and distrustful. I sit in her apartment on the top floor. She confusingly recounts her move to Athens with her husband. Each time she remembers new circumstances and seems to no longer understand where it all begins and ends. She lost her husband and started drinking heavily. Where her documents are is unknown. Whether her sister is in Turkey or Thessaloniki, Eleonora cannot determine. Every evening I visit to check on her health, measure her blood sugar, and ensure she has eaten. I give her pills and pour a couple of glasses of water, which are on the nightstand next to the bed. Eleonora cannot walk. She used to have many cats, but they made the entire stairwell so dirty that an unpleasant smell filled the building. The animal care structure took the pets and rehomed them. But Eleonora didn't understand that this had happened. 'Where is my kitty?' she asks again. 'I don't know where your kitty is; I haven't seen him,' I reply. 'I haven't seen my kitty today; I hope he's okay.' 'Yes, he's fine.' 'He's out somewhere; I'll need to feed him so he comes back.' 'Don't worry.' 'You know, I love my kitty very much. He sits on me, I pet him, and he immediately feels so good. And I feel good because he feels good.' I leave the night lamp on, close the door behind me, and head for guard duty, the night shift in security. Kurds living in Prosfygika celebrate Nowruz. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community. The participants and I meet in the square between the buildings. Several people take posts around the perimeter of the district every night to observe it and raise an alarm in case of danger. There are two of us: a Polish woman and myself. We can't reach the third—Alexander, a Greek physicist who chose Prosfygika over a career. For the past few weeks, he's been sleeping only two to four hours a day, dedicating all his time to the community. And now he's not answering his phone. This is unlike him, so I go to his apartment. Alexander shares a two-room apartment with an elderly resident of the district whom he supports. I knock on the door; the old man opens it and wakes Alexander. Prosfygika is under constant police surveillance, and the planned eviction could start at any moment. We go to the first building; the guards thoroughly barricade the entrance door, locking it from the inside with three bolts and propping it with a two-meter pipe. The post is on the balcony of the community library, cluttered with Greek literature; this is where most of the collective's meetings are held. The first action of the shift is to set up a laser to blind the police camera installed opposite, across the road. The guards have serious equipment: a radio, binoculars, two cups of coffee, and a pouch of tobacco. A strange man walks across Alexandras Avenue. He waves his legs and arms widely, as if marching. 'Look,' I nudge Alexander. He just smirks. 'Ah, yes, we know him. He walks here every night.' There's another one on a scooter; he rides around the neighborhood every night shouting insults. An ambulance with sirens passes down the avenue behind the man. 'How's life in general?' I ask Alexander. 'Not very good. My girlfriend and I broke up.' 'And how are you after that?' 'Well... She said I didn't have time for her. And that's true. I'm always in the community, you know—the situation.' 'Were you together long?' 'Five years.' 'A long time.' 'Yes. But now is a difficult time. I feel I have to be here.' Alexander lights a cigarette in silence, then asks, 'Do you know the song 'Dark Night'?' 'Yes, of course.' 'Good song. My favorite.' Graffiti with internationalist Haukur Hilmarsson in Prosfygika. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community. The radio crackles. In Greek, they report that a drone has taken off from the roof of the GADA building: the police are using them to patrol the area. A few seconds later, a small drone flies past us. This is a signal to be alert. 'How long have you been living here?' I ask Alexander. 'Since '22. Four years already.' 'And how has the community changed during this time?' Alexander is silent for a few seconds. 'There used to be many different anarchists here. Everyone hung out separately. Now we're trying to make something more organized. Do you have large organizations in the movement in Russia?' 'In Russia, almost all such groups have been destroyed. Some left, some are in prison, and those who remained do nothing publicly. That's why it's strange for me to hear [from you] talk about revolution. Especially when people genuinely believe in it.' Alexander nods. 'I understand. But if no one tries, nothing will happen. You can't just think about survival all the time. You need to think about the future.' For a few seconds, Alexander peers into the black sky and continues. 'Do you know about the platform? It's a political organization. Prosfygika is part of it. The idea is to unite different groups in Greece and the Balkans and build autonomous communities. So people can organize their lives themselves. This is our response in the face of the impending World War III.' 'Like a confederation of communes?' 'Well, yes. Something like that.' Prosfygika residents in their apartments. Photo: Archive of the Squatted Prosfygika Community. He takes a drag from his cigarette. 'But now the main thing is to protect Prosfygika. Then everything else.' At this moment, the sound of a scooter engine and shouts are heard from below. 'Fuck Mitsotakis!' 'Fuck the state!' We look down, exchange glances, and continue standing silently on the balcony. The shift had just begun. P.S. Aristotelis Handzis was hospitalized on June 22, on the 138th day of his hunger strike. Two days later, on the 140th day, the Athens municipality voted to suspend the eviction of Prosfygika. On the same day, Handzis and Suzan Dupont ended their hunger strike. They met in Aristotelis's hospital room and congratulated each other on their victory. That evening, Aristotelis's condition worsened, and he was transferred to intensive care. A battle for his life is now underway. The plans of the regional and Greek governments regarding Prosfygika have also not changed.