On The Greek Election Trail

On The Greek Election Trail

Amongst the mother-in-law jokes so popular in the 70s and 80s, I don’t recall many about the wife’s mother being the returning parliamentary candidate for the coalition of the radical left in Greece. Nevertheless, this was the situation I found myself in. Greece was facing a time of great political upheaval – and my mother-in-law was at the very centre of it. The Prime Minister had resigned. His leftist party, Syriza, elected in a surrounding spirit of hope and great optimism barely nine months earlier, had called a general election. The resignation came after endless negotiations had failed to avoid what many considered a miserable capitulation to the country’s creditors and the request of another bailout from the European Union, forcing a split in Syriza’s party. My mother-in-law – my pethera – had stood and won as an MP for Syriza in her home town in the county of Ilia down in the Peloponnese in the Greek general election of June 2012 – this came as a great surprise to her as much as anyone. Now she was seeking re-election, having won more comfortably again in Syriza’s sweep to power in January of 2015. But it wouldn’t be easy.

Back when she was just a simple potter as her profession, my mother-in-law had become politicised during the monstrosities of the Greek dictatorship in the early 70s. Along with many of her generation she had fought against the regime, becoming active in the community and in the feminist unions and then finally, years later, she stood for parliament. Her hometown seat was a mix of urban areas and some of the largest farmlands in the country. It’s an area which had been badly affected by the Greek crisis but, as a whole, not in as deep poverty as experienced elsewhere in the country. Since her first tentative steps to stand as an MP back in 1982 though, my mother-in-law, and the country, had seen Greek politics grow to become a much larger and far more dramatic entity.


I was just starting in my new life here. But, like everyone, I was preoccupied by this election. Finding out more about Greece, finding my place here, would just have to wait until the country had decided on its direction too. Passions were running high through the land. This election was all anyone was talking about. After Greece’s catastrophic economic plunge – a crash worse than the Weimar Republics in the 30s, on a par even with the Great Depression – the country was on its back. Unemployment was at 35% in some places. I was introduced to young people, university educated people, who hadn’t worked for over five years. 30 years olds, 40 year olds who had been forced to move back to their families’ small apartments and were having to live off their parents, or their grandparents’ pensions – there being no real unemployment welfare in Greece. Living off the very pensions that the European Union were trying to slash. Begging and homelessness was rife in Athens. I had passed a wedding reception being held in a disused old petrol station out in the countryside – the family told me they had no money to pay for a real venue, but people were still determined to lead a life as normally as possible – attempting to live as before the crash. I stood and watched as the bride and groom danced slowly together under the yellow lights next to the broken petrol pumps.
In saving Greece, as they saw it, the EU had insisted on an austerity programme that instead seemed to devastate the Greek economy. And then continued to stick with it, with a crazed fundamental zeal, even when all analysis showed these ideas were doing more harm than good. Capital controls on the banks, people unable to get access to their money to buy food or medicines. Riots in the streets. General strikes. A family friend of my newly married into family had been working in a bank on Stadiou Street in Athens when a bomb was thrown through the window. Anarchist friends of my koubara in Exarchia clashed daily with the police. Protesting pensioners, my father-in-law included, wrestled to the ground in front of the parliament in Syntagma Square. The Greek people were desperate for an alternative. Any alternative. They had elected the Syriza government and Prime Minister Alexis Tspiras to stand up to the EU, to fight against the imposed pain. It hadn’t quite worked out like that.

After the failed negotiations, there was real anger and a split in the country. This election was going to be hard fought and polemic, and I was going to accompany my mother-in-law on it. I wondered just how different this election campaign would be from those I was used to back home. First, I attended a rally for Tsipras in a large square in the Egaleo district in western Athens. There was a large crowd here. It flowed a long way back, past the Byzantine church, over the wide busy roads – stopping traffic trying to get in and out of Athens centre. In this world of multi-media coverage, the politician making open-air rallying speeches in front of a large massed crowd in a town square seemed a real throwback to a very different age. The people came in a receptive mood. There didn’t seem to be heckling or trouble-makers. The anarchists of Exarchia not to be seen today. Many took the opportunity instead to conduct debates amongst themselves, and more still had brought elaborate picnics and ouzo and treated the occasion as a great chance to socialise. Politics, after all, being the social glue of the country. Tsipras talked for over an hour. The crowd seemed appreciative, but one man – a man who had been applauding loudly next to me all evening – told me “Yes he was impressive today,” he flicked an olive into his mouth, rolled it round with his tongue, thought for a while. “Ah… he can be impressive every day if he likes. But will I vote for him this time? I’m not sure, I’m not sure. I’m still thinking….Tin ipografi sou kai to pouli sou na prosehees pou ta vazees” he cackled. It took me a while to work out the saying in my head – Your signature and your penis, you have to be careful where you put both. I looked back at the man, he was still smiling. He jutted out his arm, offered me an olive. Spitting his stone high in the thick Athens air.


Down in the Peloponnese, south of the country, it was sweltering, even in the September late-evening. I was accompanying my mother-in-law on one of her first campaign outings. A drive of an hour or so, up in the hills high above her home town of Amaliada, we arrived at a small, old village and took root in a characterful old kafeneio – the local gathering place for older generation Greeks, where coffee and rakis are sunk and debates rumble between slow games of backgammon. Obligatory hospitality was offered out – it was insisted that everyone in our visiting campaign team who had descended unasked on these villagers must have drinks and mezes. Then my mother-in-law stood to make a brief speech to the assorted workers, farmers, small shop owners, old women in traditional headscarves, an old priest surrounded by bottles: the odd crowd which had gathered here to listen. The campaign visits these kafeneia as there would have be one known Syriza voter in the town who had been tasked with rounding up locals from the area, out on the farms, high up with herds on the mountain ridges, to come and listen to the constituency MP. As the sound of Tsipras addressing the nation on an unwatched tv floated down from an open window above, my mother-in-law talked to the villagers and, surprisingly to me, concentrated on Syriza’s fraught European endeavours rather than any of her own local successes. Any lingering optimism that the pro-Syriza feelings of January may still endure here soon vanished as the evening opened out to questions from the crowd.
“You stood there nine months ago and promised things. Syriza has done nothing!”
“Even if you want to help us farmers, you can’t. Germany, the Troika, they decide everything. You can do nothing. Nothing! Why do you even pretend?”
The mood appeared angry. Everything said at high volume, with overly aggressive exclamations and ugly body language, or so it seemed to my fey British senses anyway. The locals even turned on each other. When one claimed he has lost over 40,000 euros over the last six years his friend gave him short shrift.
“Well that’s before Syriza then, isn’t it? Why do you even talk? Malaka!” He threw a muja, the open handed symbol of derision, in his friend’s face, dramatically turning his wooden seat away to complete his point.
It appeared to me that Syriza’s historic victory at the beginning of 2015 perhaps wasn’t a rising of the concerned voice for the underprivileged, those struggling at the bottom. But actually it seemed a vote just to get rid of the European-organised austerity which had affected them personally and, now that fight has been frustrated, the feelings here had dissolved back into the same old self-serving concerns. Whether I was right or not, I noted the arguments all centred resolutely on Europe and the measures and the memorandums. Any social or local issues failed to get any air time in these old cafes whatsoever. It seemed a campaign forced into a very narrow, but massively heated, area. The loudest opposing voice appeared to be coming from a man I remembered well from last January, when I flew from England to visit my mother-in-law on the day of her victory. The man had bought me raki after raki, drinking with me, making toasts, slapping at my face with joy, hugging me vigorously in the main square in Amaliada on the night of the election results, so happy was he with Syriza’s victory. Nine months, it appeared, was a very long time in Greek politics. There were more and more angry complaints made in the village square on this thick, hot, heavy evening. The villagers complaining that many in Greece are cheats, that the country as a whole cheats and wheedles. The Greek character is flawed, they said. My mother-in-law replied, calmly if a little bemused. “So you’re waiting for democracy to change this? For parliament to change the Greek character? Ok. Well, if you are, which is the party to do it? The old parties of corruption..?”

PASOK and New Democracy had squatted on Greece for over 40 years. The country was these parties. These parties were the country. Since the fall of the dictator, the country had alternated between one of these parties in government. They had done much to modernise Greece, it’s true. It wasn’t a European state when either of these parties were born. PASOK brought in free education and health care. Both parties steered the country to wealthier, more prosperous times. But both did so much to ruinously mismanage the country too. The nepotism flowing through the ruling dynasties of both parties – the Papandreou family in PASOK, the Mitsotakis and Karamanlis families in New Democracy. Premierships just handed down like an inheritance. The bloated state, with civil service jobs created solely to be given out to party faithfuls. The corruption and bribery and pocket lining. Concentration on sweeping away the old corrupt party politics had become Syriza and Tsipras’ mantra in this election, now his battle with Europe had been lost. And Greek elections are especially renowned for their malfeasance: votes often swapped for favours done, jobs given. Candidates told that they will get a vote, or not, depending on what they or what their rival will offer. It had been long in the blood of many Greeks, and it seemed almost impossible to change. I learned it to be true myself when I was sent to the corner mini-market.
“Ah so you’re Efi’s gabros eh? Her son-in-law…” the owner of the shop said to me. She tapped at her chin. “You’ve reminded me…”
Before I’d even reached home again the shop owner had phoned my mother-in-law to ask for a job for her son. Hinting that the New Democracy rival had already offered her something. “Tha meh volepseis, neh…?” she said down the phone – So you will you do something for me then, yes…?
Rousfeti – the granting of favours for something in return. Ladoma – the nefarious backstairs payment of money in the brown paper bag for special political treatment. The Greeks even have their own specific words for these malpractices. “Ksemperdevoume me to palio,” Syriza now had as their rallying cry – done with the old. It was to be printed on all the leaflets and campaigning materials. Though, in that common Greek dilatory way, the manifestos hadn’t been printed or delivered yet, so there was nothing to actually hand out on the campaign trail. And even when they were ready – a few days after the vote – there were no pictures of Tsipras, no winning images. This was the Greek Left: collectivism, no individuals, no gimmicks.

It seemed bizarre to be following this political campaign of a party of ex-Trotskyist leftists, here in Greece, outdoors, in the heat with the cicadas and the smell of jasmine in the air, rather than surrounded by cold Eastern Bloc architecture and comrades in boiler suits. But Syriza themselves laugh at the unreconstructed Greek Communist Party – the KKE – with their hardline views and even more militant campaigning organisation skills. I watched a KKE rally on tv and was struck by the crowds chanting out their slogans in unison in hard, indoctrinated fashion. I was also plagued daily outside my window by KKE vans touring the local streets relaying the strict messages through loud speakers with snatches of blasted Soviet-style music. There are, of course, two other off-shoot parties of the KKE who passionately hate each other: the Marxist-Leninist KKE and – whatever you do, don’t muddle them up – the KKE Marxist-Leninists.
The Communists seemed a little ridiculous. Despite their heroic history in the country – they were the ones who most bravely fought side by side with the British during the Second World War and were despicably treated by the Allies afterwards, leading to four years of ruinous civil war in the country and the imprisonment and displacement of many thousands of Greek citizens, my mother-in-law’s father included, they didn’t seem to really fit into today’s world. They were unapologetically unreconstructed: opposing gay rights, strident on Greece’s ongoing naming negotiations with Macedonia. Their mission seemed just to oppose anything put forward by any party. So it was not so surprising that Tsipras’ new leftist party was able to appeal last time round. But if Syriza believed themselves as the competent, pragmatic Left, the snapshot of feeling here in this typical Peloponnese village where we had started the campaign showed they certainly had their work cut out to convince the people of it again this time round.

Quite ridiculously, in this small village, there was three kafeneia all within a few steps from each other. In the past a village would have a kafeneio for those with right wing views and a kafeneio for those left wing views. As my mother-in-law moved between each one to chat to the patrons, sitting and – despite the shouted conversations – sharing ashtrays with them, the debates continued in the kafeneia she had just left behind, like secondary explosions.
“Why did they come here? Just to drink our coffee?”
“Well what can she say anyway? Syriza: five months, 50 lies.”
“Why don’t we vote for – newly formed centrist party – Potami? They haven’t had the chance to lie to us yet…”
Like the prosaicism of those able to start an argument in an empty room, these conflicts were heated and pugnacious despite all seemingly agreeing with each other. I didn’t hear anyone putting forward the Syriza point of view. And yet, despite all this, as we left the village the campaign team felt it went well and were confident that most here would still vote Syriza in two weeks’ time.


Another campaign day, another long journey into the countryside. This time six of us, including the squashed MP, were piled into a small car, the car sagging down deep on its springs. We were to tour a selection of tiny villages, again high in the remote hills.
“This is a good village for us,” someone said in the back. “Last time we took five votes here…”
We stopped at a grocery, but the shop owner didn’t want to talk. His daughter had, that very day, emigrated to Australia. One of the flood of young people who were leaving Greece. The brain-drain that was another potentially fatal concern for the future of the country. The man seemed very down and, unusually for a Greek, told us, as if confessing an illness “I don’t feel like talking politics today…”
“If you lose your parents,” he said, “They call you an orphan. What do they call you when you lose your child eh?” He moved between each one of us, looking into each of our faces. “Eh?” “Eh?” He stopped in front of me. I had no answer.
Expressing the key feeling amongst the people that my mother-in-law somehow had to address, the man told her “Nothing will ever change. It’s the system. The system is broken…” He said this patting at her arm, with a sad, knowing air. As if everyone knows she was wasting her time on this fools errand as an MP and he felt bad to be the one to have to break it to her. We visited another kafeneio. Another group of old men, dressed in old fashions, worrybeads swinging from their fingers, unwavering views thrown out into the air.
“Give me 24 hours,” said one. “That’s all I ask. Just 24 hours in a room with the government and I could sort out this whole mess.”
The man had a strong, lined face that had been worked over by the sun and wind of these Peloponnese lands for 60 years or more. He talked of his lack of money, the hopelessness of his circumstances.
“I will survive this though,” he said, standing up from his chair, rising to his full height “I will survive. Because…” he paused for effect, looked around him to check everyone was listening “I will survive… because I am Greek!” he thumped his fist hard on his chest. The other old men of the cafe nodded their white heads, like bobbing dandelions, in agreement.

Greek village high on the hills-r50

A younger villager appeared down the road, swearing and gesticulating, he ran up to to my mother-in-law and nose-to-nose started shouting at her. He shouted how Tsipras has let the country down.
“He could have been the Chavez of Europe!” he said, swinging his arms in great circles, round and round. He continued to rant and I felt a fear for my mother-in-law’s safety, when it was translated to me that actually he was offering his support. He would be one of the men in the villages organising future help in the run-up to the election. We travelled to more villages. More views. More bellicose aggrandising. The more the men shouted how they had NEVER been part of the old corrupt parties, how they had NEVER been PASOK or New Democracy, the more I felt they definitely had been. Now latching on to the new party of power, in the hope of…what exactly? More rousfeti I guessed.
We stopped at a taverna. A group of 20 men with, as always, just a small smattering of women sat outside. As my mother-in-law talked to them, drinks and hospitality were offered, again, despite the chariness and suspicion that we, particularly I, were viewed with. I sat next to an old couple with their head-scarved ancient mother. I asked how many elections they’ve seen in their time, how many candidates had called into this village. The old woman didn’t know her age and her son was very distrustful. “Watch him,” he told her “He wants to know things…” The old woman ignored this though and talked with me for a while, told me that the other traditional parties used to come, years ago, but don’t now.
“They only come and show their faces when they want something. Otherwise you never see them. They just hide away with our money.”
A man sat down at the taverna table – a local shepherd – and talked of how he was unable to even afford new shoes, placing his decrepit, more hole than shoe, pair on the table. He started working himself up.
“We should get guns!” he shouted. “We should get guns! We should have a revolution! But no, you’re not brave enough…” he spat, slapping at the shoulder of the bemused, slight, bespectacled Syriza helper sat to his right, knocking him off his seat. The shephered then stood up and kicked his chair out into the street and lent over and pushed the drinks on our table to smash down on the floor. It was a disconcerting moment – even though he then stood with his arms by his side, stooped in a slightly sheepish silence afterwards, as the large lady owner of the bar came and flapped him out of the way and angrily swept up the shards of glass. But it shocked me, and it showed just how high passions were running in this election. However, the most prevalent concern I heard from most people, whether Syriza supporter or not, was “Why, exactly, are we having another election?” Having had Euro election, a general election, and a referendum in the space of less than 18 months, the voters were exhausted of elections. Many were concern that these endless elections – five in the last six years – made Greece look a failed country. My mother-in-law had a double challenge: convince people why they should vote in the first place, and then get them to vote her way.

“How dare you come here and talk to us?”
We were in the square of Zacharo – Sugar Town. A town to the south of the constituency with a murky election history – the mayor of this town, in a bid for votes for his campaign, had once laid on “love buses” for the menfolk here, so it was reported. Taking them over the northern border of the country to enjoy the pleasures of Bulgarian ladies of the night. He swept in with an impressive majority. There were further scandals attached to this town and I’m told how, like other towns all over Greece, the campaigning posters of MPs from rival parties would be pulled down. The mayors of these towns are often spotted hanging from trees and lampposts in the middle of the night, hacking at their rivals’ banners. The fight is not always a fair one. The citizens of Zacharo did not seem supportive of my mother-in-laws’ cause either.
“How dare you come and try and talk to these people!” one man shouted from a cafe at the campaign team.
It seemed odd that he was so offended at the sitting MP coming to field questions from the electorate with just over a week to go before the election, but the presence of any politician – if they’re not doing you a favour that is – is not often a popular one in Greece. A slanging match evolved around the square, with others outside the café all taking sides. I heard the troubling words Chrysi Avgi – Golden Dawn – praisefully thrown. It was a reminder that the polls had the dangerous far-right party as coming third, and a further warning of what was at stake in these elections. Golden Dawn had risen in popularity dramatically in the country, particularly since the economic crisis had begun. Campaigning on anti-immigration, anti-Muslim, pro-ultra Hellenic ideals. Many Golden Dawn voters supported a return of the military Junta. Many even openly identifed themselves as Nazis. Many more wished to expand Greek territory into Bulgaria and Turkey, even up to olden day Constantinople. Two years earlier an anti-fascist rapper had been murdered by Golden Dawn supporters in a cafe in Athens. Months of violent rioting in the capital and in Thessaloniki followed. The leader of Golden Dawn and several of its MPs were arrested in connection to the murder. All were released.


The campaign team moved out along the coast to meet more potential voters. In some of the small fishing ports there seemed to be greater support for the Syriza cause. People came out to embrace my mother-in-law and expressed genuine sympathy for Tsipras.
“Poor guy. He tried. He really did. What can you do up against Europe? What can you do when you are up against Germany and Madam Merkel?”
One moustached shop owner draped a judicious arm over my mother-in-law and told her in a considered manner.
“Tsipras has an honest face. I know when I see his face, he is a trustworthy guy.” He tapped his finger up towards the sky. “I would always vote for a man with a face like that.”
Another man raced out of his house, only in his underwear, shouting. His face full of anger.
“Ah, it’s you,” he stopped suddenly and backtracked to his door. “I thought it was PASOK or New Democracy. I was hoping for a fight! Ah I’ll be voting for you next Sunday,” he said grinning now, happily showing his missing front teeth. “Don’t worry. I will vote!”

Despite the considerable differences I had observed on the campaign out here, my mother-in-law was still roped into the typical antics of the imploring MP that I associated with electioneering back home. Although it was not kissing babies or largest marrow competitions in Greece. On one day she was asked to judge a brutal Grecco wrestling competition, held on white-hot sands on a beach near Ancient Olympia, handing out the prizes alongside the Greek Olympic silver medal holder, stood next to her with his carved naked body poured into his trunks. I was also employed myself, stuffing envelopes, and spent hours at the Syriza office in Amaliada town – hardly a hotbed of political intrigue: two old men permanently stationed outside, one usually my father-in-law, smoking and drinking Greek coffees. They told people who wandered over – like the man I saw come by with his broken down cart and goat – where they could go to vote. Reminding him to vote for Syriza – though, naturally, leftist ethics mean that they wouldn’t tell him which of the Syriza candidates in this seat to vote for. Collectivism, always collectivism. Seemingly satisfied, the man, his cart and goat wheeled off down the streets out into the night. Another man who walked by was pointed out to me. He was a teacher who had lost his job in the austerity cuts. He would turn up at the family house shouting how he just wanted his job back, he only wanted the chance to work, it was every man’s right to earn a living. So, taking up his cause, my mother-in-law fought tirelessly for him to be reinstated. She was successful. A few days after he was given his job back. She walked through the town square and saw him sat drinking coffee.
“Why aren’t you at school?” she said.
“Ah,” he tapped at his temple to indicate his smart thinking. “I’ve applied for paternity leave now…”

I followed my mother-in-law on a few tv and radio interviews. The attitude remained resolutely Greek and uncultivated. I listened on the radio as one interview descended into a slanging match with two journalist bellowing accusations. It had been revealled that the radio station had asked for 1000 euros from my mother-in-law if she wanted to appear on their station. She had refused and so had not appeared since January. Instead of any shamefaced embarrassment, the DJs wanted to know exactly what she DID do with her money – if not paying journalists to appear on their shows. It all seemed quite incredible to me. And then even more startling was the journalists afterwards taking much longer than the interview itself to self-righteously castigate her once she had left, moaning over the airwaves in a wounded manner about how she had asked them to tone down the shouting.
“What? She tells us not to shout at her? She tells us what to do? MPs think they know our job better than us? We can’t shout at who we like on our own show, is that what she’s telling us? Ai sto diaolo!
I had a worry that this all might seem unprofessional to listening voters, but at a bar in the main square in Amaliada where I often sat and watched the news on the main national tv channels, I’d already been struck by the fairly low level of political broadcasting. One of the popular current affairs programmes that always seemed to be on, had a multiple split-screen show with politicians, journalists and presenters. All the guests on the show hurled abuse, spoke over each other, shouted, banged desks, threw papers in the air. No viewer could understand a word of what was going on. And this was Greece’s main source for tv news and debate. The lady owner of the bar, idly watching this ridiculous scene played out on the tv, whilst running a cloth over a glass turned to me with detached reproof, nodded at the screen and with an exasperated sigh said simply “Ellada, eh?” – Greece, eh? Like many Greeks I seemed to meet, she was one of those who would refer to the country as if it were completely foreign to them. Inhabited by people with ways they just couldn’t fathom.

The televised debate of the leaders of the parties went out late one evening and it was a long, ponderous affair. Lasting over four hours and finishing in the early morning. My mother-in-law appeared on a similar tv debate with her rival local candidates on the slightly less grand ‘Olympic’ channel beamed from somewhere out in the Ionian Sea. It was still a closely watched event though – even as her debate rumbled on past midnight – by a nation of television, as well as political, addicts.
“Politics for us… it’s like the weather for you British,” so I was told by one fellow campaigner. “It’s all we ever care about…”
And this seemed very true. I saw one man outside a periptero – the old style Greek kiosks on every street that are essential to life in Greece and which sell pretty much everything you could ever think of. He took down a newspaper from one of the hanging racks and read through the latest political developments. I could see him getting more and more enraged, breathing heavily through his nose in loud snorts. Eventually the old man, unable to contain himself any longer, slung the paper to the ground. After looking down at it, thinking for a while, he lept in the air and stamped on the paper, just for good measure.
Graffiti is on walls all over Greece with a scrawled, simple, “PASOK” or “KKE” on it, like the tribal support of a local football team, or the drawing of a sweetheart’s name. It impressed me. I couldn’t imagine anyone bothering to waste the paint to spray a tribute to the Liberal Democrats back home.


I attended a final rally for Tsipras in Patras, the large sea-city just north of my mother-in-law’s constituency. This time I was at the front, with the MPs and dignitaries, not back in the crowd with the hoi-polloi. I felt absurdly important. It went to my head as Tsipras appeared and the cheering swept loudly over us. Tsipras walked through the crowd, high-fiving, and for some reason – the heady atmosphere getting to me – I stood up to give him a handshake, but then refused to let go. Tsipras was forced to walk along greeting other members of the public shaking and wriggling out of my grasp, smiling through gritted teeth. It seemed strange to me that there were only one or two police to guard the country’s Prime Minister. They watched me bothering Tsipras, unimpressed but uninvolved. Later after his long address I was able to amble over to where Tsipras had delivered his speech and found his notes and papers absent-mindedly left behind. Just one old man was in charge of packing up the whole stage, he sat on a cog of wound-up leads, rubbing his head looking at the task in front of him, a cigarette burning low in the corner of his mouth. He looked so tired at the prospect of clearing everything up, it was almost as if he was dealing with a kind of grief.
For a country that was at the centre of the world’s interest and for a party that might hold the very fate of the European Dream in their hands, this election and the campaign for my mother-in-law that I had followed had seemed very simple, very open. Perhaps a little amateurish, but all the less cynical for it. I respected the fact that the Greeks I had met all held their views to be true; that their distrust of politicians was absolute; that they all had unerring belief that – if only they were given the chance – they could personally fix all the country’s problems. And I admired each one’s incontestable, unshakable, certainty in their complete suitability to be prime minister. My mother-in-law had found the reaction from the people tough, although expected. I had found her willingness to engage with the electorate inspiriting, despite their frequent hostility and routine bad temper. It may seem safer on the knocker in Tonbridge Wells or hiding behind leaflet drops and telephone canvasing from a party HQ back in Britain, but duller and far less engaged with the real spirit of politics. Democracy was born here, of course, and perhaps exists still in its purest form.

So we gathered in Amaliada Square to await the outcome, as we had done in January. We moved to a restaurant, waiting for the results. The place was bustling with anticipation and excitement. I gazed around, taking in the figures arguing with great passion, hands waving in faces – although of course the discussions could be about the future of the country or could be whether they should have calamari for a starter, everything seems conducted at about the same volume and intensity. I noticed a few of the customers smoking. Surely this was a non-smoking restaurant though? It is the law after all… Didn’t I see a sign…? I turned to my mother-in-law, the incumbent MP for the town, the standard bearer for the people, I see her contentedly puffing away directly under the large ‘Strictly No Smoking Allowed’ sign. The owner happily carried over one of their ashtrays for her. I wondered if Greece would ever really change. It seems plain that even the MPs believe, as all the Greek people seem to, that the interference in personal freedoms is an insult to democracy, so perhaps there really is a truth when I heard it said that Greece is ultimately ungovernable? However, at least in this election, unlike last time, my wife hadn’t been apprehended by one of the officials at the count and told that, due to lack of numbers she must join the counting of the vote.
“Well, you have a degree don’t you? You can’t be stupid. You can count…”.
She had actually spent time herself, back in her student days, on the streets protesting and disrupting with the Athens and Thessaloniki anarchists – anarchism, disruptions, organised disobedience of course a big and just as important faction of Greek politics as voting and traditional party politics. Although her group was always more bookish theorists rather than any kind of Baader-Meinhof type terrorists. But still, I watched the daughter of one of the prospective candidates for the ward – someone who had previously run with the anti-democracy crowd, with no training or supervision –  purposefully and assiduously counting votes for her mother and the other candidates on an old table in a broken-down school hall. It didn’t seem quite right to me. But then, as the lady of the old bar in Amaliada square had it: Greece, eh..?