Shock therapy and the gold mine

From switching off the national broadcaster, to the Skouries protests, the Greek government is unable to silence public anger at its handling of the crisis.

You are invited to read this free preview of this week's New Statesman, out now. To purchase the full magazine - with our  signature mix of opinion, longreads and arts coverage - please visit our subscription page

 

***

“So, you’ve come to talk to terrorists,” says Maria Christianou as I step off the bus, after a two-hour journey through rolling hills east of Thessaloníki. Christianou, an environmentalist, makes it sound like a well-worn phrase, but it’s no less incongruous for all that: Ierissos, a remote village on the Chalkidiki Peninsula – the “three fingers” that stick out from the northern Greek mainland into the Aegean – is little more than a cluster of streets around a crossroads, surrounded by mountains on one side and sea on the other. One road out of the village leads back to Thessaloníki, the other to the sacred Orthodox site of Mount Athos, famed for its men-only entry policy. At first glance, this hardly seems to be a seat of insurrection.

Yet for the past three years Ierissos has been at the centre of an increasingly bitter dispute. Its inhabitants, hitherto more accustomed to farming, or fishing, or running hotels, have been condemned as subversives at the highest level of government, and they have learned how to stem the effects of tear gas, how to build a roadblock and how to carry out basic first aid. At the village school, Christianou says, “Teachers say the kids have changed their drawings. Now they’re about their parents being arrested.”

The reason for the dispute is the gold that lies in the ground beneath Skouries, an ancient mountain forest just outside Ierissos. Small-scale mining has taken place in the region since the days of Aristotle, who was born here near the village of Stagira. In modern times, various companies have operated concessions, but plans to expand them collapsed after running into local opposition. Now, however, Skouries is one of several sites in Chalkidiki earmarked for a vast expansion of gold mining which will extract roughly 380 million tonnes of ore, far in excess of the 33 million tonnes that have been mined in the past two millennia. Opponents say the project – an open-cast pit, supported by chemical and distribution plants – will destroy the surrounding environment, and that the jobs created won’t replace the livelihoods lost that depend on soil, sea or tourism. The government says the scheme must go ahead: Greece’s profound economic crisis allows it no alternative. Since 2010, when ministers approved the expansion – ignoring the conclusions, campaigners say, of an environmental impact assessment report – protests against the mines have grown into a movement of thousands.

At a café in the heart of the village, Christianou introduces me to some of the people with whom she has worked to build the campaign. Thomasis Kromidas, a carpenter in his fifties who carries a bulging folder of scientific documents in his backpack, tells me how, from late 2010, they began to hold public meetings in neighbouring villages, “just transmitting the scientists’ message, not our own views”.

In March 2011 came the first unrest: 3,000 people descended on the streets of Ierissos, a village with a population of only 4,000, to make their objections heard. The anti-mining campaigners formed themselves into organising committees, holding regular protests and monitoring the development of the Skouries site.

In December that year, the Canada-based conglomerate Eldorado Gold bought a 95 per cent stake in Hellas Gold – a private company set up by the Greek government to run mines in Chalkidiki. The following March, the government conceded 4.1 square kilometres of the publicly owned Skouries forest to the company so that it could begin work. Eldorado, which also operates mines in Brazil, China and Turkey and has a site under dev­elopment in Romania, has said that it will protect the environment, but the protests have continued. On 20 March 2012, there was an angry stand-off at Skouries when hundreds of mineworkers from another site confronted 30 local campaigners. On 25 March – a national holiday in Greece – protesters rallied in the surrounding villages and prepared to march to Skouries. On the road into the forest, they encountered a line of riot police who drove them back with tear gas and stun grenades. “People were totally unprepared,” says Maria Kadoglou, a blogger from Ierissos. “There were families, old people. Women were wearing high heels because they’d come straight from church.”

This was just the beginning. Mobilisations suffered increasing harassment by police and private security guards. A video shot during a protest on 21 October last year shows villagers panicking as armed police chase them through the forest and shoot tear gas at them. We have become used to such images from the Greek capital, but Ierissos is not Athens. It is part of a conservative region whose voters often used to opt for the centre-right candidate at election time. Irini Mourkou, who owns a guest house that caters to the Greek, German and Russian tourists who descend on Chalkidiki every summer, describes the change that has taken place in people’s minds: “Before, we believed the police were there to protect citizens. After, we realised they were there to protect private interests.” Kromidas interjects: “Colonisation is what’s happening here.”

In February, the Greek prime minister, Antonis Samaras, gave his assurance that his government would “at all costs protect foreign investment in the country” and that the scheme would succeed. Yet under the terms of the concession, the Greek state will receive no royalties from minerals extracted. Why, in the face of so much popular opposition, would the government be so determined to see the Skouries project through?

Anti-mining protesters in the forest near Skouries, on 1 May 2012. Photograph: Getty Images

***

In mid-May, shortly after I visited Ierissos, Greek newspapers carried photographs from China of Samaras with his Chinese counterpart, Li Keqiang. Samaras, a Harvard-educated economist whose party, New Democracy, has led a fragile coalition since elections that took place a year ago this month, was the latest in a string of European leaders to make the pilgrimage to Beijing. His keynote speech, delivered to the Academy of Social Sciences but aimed at Chinese businessmen above all, carried an optimistic message: come and take part in “the Greek success story”.

The visit was part of a PR drive by the Greek government to convince investors that the country has seen off the worst of the crisis. Its efforts have been welcomed enthusiastically by “analysts” in the business press and the financial industry – not out of a new-found concern for the Greek people, but to show that the economic “shock therapy” imposed on this eurozone member was worth it all along. In May, Yannis Stournaras, the minister of finance, declared that Greece had “turned a corner” economically and that it could return to the financial markets in 2014. That same month, the Fitch ratings agency upgraded Greek debt from CCC to B-minus, still officially “junk” status, but a reward for “progress” in cutting the deficit. At the same time, the government has been preparing a huge sell-off of public assets – privatisations that would, in the words of the country’s development minister, “send the message that we are a business-friendly country”.

As politicians try to sell the new Greece, the social crisis - which even the IMF now admits was avoidable - continues to deepen. Hospitals, for instance, are so underfunded that they run short of basic medical supplies. What’s more, public anger, voiced at the elections a year ago when many voters deserted the mainstream parties, and swung to the far left and far right, shows no sign of abating. A group of enraged villagers who don’t want their mountain turned into an open-cast mine could severely damage the perception that Greece is a safe place for global capital.

To an international audience Samaras may play the benign technocrat, but at home his political record suggests something different. In 1993 he brought down the government after he was sacked as foreign minister over his stance in a naming dispute with the former Yugoslav Republic of Macedonia (an emotional issue for many Greeks, who see ancient Macedon as central to their heritage) and formed a hardline nationalist movement, Political Spring. In 2004 he rejoined New Democracy, which is nominally centre-right but has also accommodated more extreme elements; as leader, he took the party into the 2012 election on an aggressively nationalist platform, promising severe measures to curb illegal immigration.

But what began with immigrants – a stop-and-search programme known as Xenios Zeus, widely criticised by human rights campaigners – has spread to other elements of the population. In December, squats such as the long-standing Villa Amalia in Athens were evicted by armed police. In April the minister of justice proposed turning a former military camp  into a prison for debtors who owe more than €5,000 to the state. This month, the Greek Transgender Support Association reported that transgender people in Thessaloníki had been subjected to weeks of police harassment.

And the abrupt closure of the national broadcaster ERT on 11 June brought Greece back into the spotlight for the wrong reasons. The government announced that the service, the Greek equivalent of the BBC, would shut down pending a restructuring and broadcasts would halt that evening. Although the action was officially justified by a need to cut civil-service jobs to meet the demands of Greece’s creditors, the way it was carried out evoked memories of the junta that ruled Greece from 1967 to 1974. Even New Democracy’s coalition partners condemned the move. The only other party to support it was the neo-Nazi Golden Dawn. As Panos Kassaris, an ERT journalist based in Thessaloníki, told me, the broadcaster “is a bulwark against the growing power of the far right, [as it] ensures a variety of opinions will be expressed”.

But the move may have backfired: journalists refused to cease working, and occupied their offices, while thousands of ordinary Greeks turned out to support them. One friend in Thessaloníki told me that the mood was "like it was two years ago" - referring to the indignados protest movement that swept the country in 2011. On 17 June one of the country’s highest courts ruled that ERT must continue broadcasting, while on 21 June, crisis talks between leaders of the three coalition parties broke down, raising the prospect of yet more elections.

***

In February 2013, the Skouries dispute took on another dimension when the Hellas Gold site was subjected to an arson attack. According to a press release from Eldorado, around fifty masked men stormed the site, setting fire to equipment and offices, and using tree trunks to block police and firefighters from reaching the blaze. It is still not clear who did it, but the state pressure immediately intensified. The police launched daily patrols in Ierissos, stopping people at random in the street and taking them in for questioning. Next, on 7 March, came what villagers refer to as “the invasion”. As video footage shows, anti-terrorism squads and several hundred riot police descended on the village – ostensibly to search suspects’ houses – firing tear gas as they approached. Witnesses claim that gas canisters even landed in the school playground while pupils were at lessons.

“They were trying to break us,” says Maria Kadoglou, but the move appears to have had the opposite effect. On 9 March, thousands of people marched through the streets of Thessaloníki in solidarity, followed by a second demonstration in Athens a few days later. Despite hostility from the oligarch-owned television stations that dominate the country’s media, the word has spread through social media and citizen journalism projects such as the Athens-based Radiobubble. The Skouries campaign has become a symbolic issue for people all over Greece.

At the café in Ierissos, I chatted about these developments with the anti-gold-mine campaigners. Thomasis the carpenter had a neat way of putting it: “When the politicians go out, solidarity comes in.” As we talked, I got a sense of how the very things that a conservative like Samaras might brandish as Greek values – community, friendship, self-reliance – were now valuable weapons. The café is a centre of village life where teenagers lounge and flirt, or play with their phones, where people drop in to exchange greetings or gossip. And now, of course, it is where “terrorists” come to plot.

Follow Daniel Trilling on Twitter @trillingual

Demonstrators against Hellenic Gold march in the forest in Megali Panagia, northern Greece, on 18 November, 2012. Photograph: Getty Images

Daniel Trilling is the Editor of New Humanist magazine. He was formerly an Assistant Editor at the New Statesman.

This article first appeared in the 24 June 2013 issue of the New Statesman, Mr Scotland

JAMIE KINGHAM/MILLENNIUM
Show Hide image

Snakebites and body parts

The city at the edge of an apocalypse: a love letter to Los Angeles.

I was emailing with Kenneth Anger, the film-maker, when the coyotes across the street in Griffith Park started howling.

That’s partially true.

I was emailing him to ask if he’d direct a music video for me. Maybe Lucifer Rising 2.0. Or anything.

Just him in the kitchen making tea, as recorded on his iPhone.

Kenneth Anger is alive and well in Santa Monica, so why not ask him to direct a video for me? Hopefully, he’ll respond. We’ve never met, so I sent an email to him, not with him. That’s the partial truth.

But the coyotes did start howling.

It’s the single best sound in Los Angeles, or any city. Is there another city where you can email an 89-year-old devotee of Aleister Crowley while listening to a few dozen coyotes screaming and howling and ripping the night into little pieces?

No. Just here. This oddness by the sea and an inch from a billion acres of Arrakis.

I never thought I’d end up living in Los Angeles, but I’ve ended up living in Los Angeles. This dirtiest, strangest paradise.

Yesterday I went hiking in a two-million-acre state park that’s 30 minutes from my house. A state park bigger than all of New York City. And it’s 30 minutes away. With no people. Just bears and pumas and coyotes and snakes.

And other things. Abandoned bridges. An observatory where Albert Einstein used to go to watch space.

What a strange city.

A perfect city. Perfect for humans at the edge of this strangely unfolding apocalypse. A gentle apocalypse with trade winds and Santa Ana winds and the biannual vicious storm that rips eucalyptus trees up by their roots.

What a strange city. And it’s my home.

Today I hiked to the back of the Hollywood sign. This was before Kenneth Anger and the coyotes.

The tourists were dropping like flies on the long, hot mountain trail, not aware that this isn’t a city with the safe European ­infrastructure that keeps them happy
and/or alive.

Every now and then, a tourist dies in the hills, bitten by a snake or lost at night. The emergency rooms are full of tourists with snakebites and heatstroke.

Where are the European safeguards?

Fuck us if we need safeguards. Go live in a place like this gentle wasteland where you’re not at the top of the food chain. If you’re not in danger of being eaten at some point in the day, you’re probably not breathing right.

I hope Kenneth Anger writes back.

 

22 May

I drove some friends around my neighbourhood. They want to live here. Why wouldn’t they? Pee-wee Herman and Thom Yorke live up the street.

David Fincher lives a block away. It’s blocks and blocks of jasmine-scented name-
dropping.

It’s warm in the winter and it’s weird all year round.

And there’s a Frank Lloyd Wright that looks like a lunatic Mayan spaceship.

And there go the coyotes again, howling like adorable delegates of death.

They’re so smart, I wish they would make me their king.

You hate Los Angeles? Who cares? You made a mistake, you judged it like you’d judge a city. Where’s the centre?

There’s no centre. You want a centre? The centre cannot hold. Slouching towards Bethlehem. Things fall apart.

Amazing how many titles can come from one poem. What’s a gyre?

Yeats and Kenneth Anger and Aleister Crowley. All these patterns.

Then we had brunch in my art deco pine-tree-themed restaurant, which used to sell cars and now sells organic white tea and things.

The centre cannot hold. I still have no idea what a gyre is.

Maybe something Irish or Celtic.

It’s nice that they asked me to write this journal.

Things fall apart.

So you hate Los Angeles? Ha. It still loves you, like the sandy golden retriever it is. Tell me again how you hate the city loved by David Lynch and where David Bowie made his best album? Listen to LA Woman by the Doors and watch Lynch’s Lost Highway and read some Joan Didion – and maybe for fun watch Nightcrawler – and tell me again how you hate LA.

I fucking love this sprawling inchoate pile of everything.

Even at its worst, it’s hiding something baffling or remarkable.

Ironic that the city of the notoriously ­vapid is the city of deceiving appearance.

After brunch, we went hiking.

Am I a cliché? Yes. I hike. I do yoga. I’m a vegan. I even meditate. As far as clichés go, I prefer this to the hungover, cynical, ruined, sad, grey cliché I was a decade ago.

“You’re not going to live for ever.”

Of course not.

But why not have a few bouncy decades that otherwise would’ve been spent in a hospital or trailing an oxygen tank through a damp supermarket?

 

24 May

A friend said: “The last time I had sex, it was warm and sunny.”

Well, that’s helpful.

October? June? February?

No kidding, the coyotes are howling again. I still love them. Have you ever heard a pack of howling coyotes?

Imagine a gaggle of drunk college girls who also happened to be canine demons. Screaming with blood on their teeth.

It’s such a beautiful sound but it also kind of makes you want to hide in a closet.

No Kenneth Anger.

Maybe I’m spam.

Vegan spam.

Come on, Kenneth, just make a video for me, OK?

I’ll take anything.

Even three minutes of a plant on a radiator.

I just received the hardcover copy of my autobiography, Porcelain. And, like anyone, I skimmed the pictures. I’m so classy, eating an old sandwich in my underpants.

A friend’s dad had got an advance copy and was reading it. I had to issue the cautious caveat: “Well, I hope he’s not too freaked out by me dancing in my own semen while surrounded by a roomful of cross-dressing Stevie Nicks-es.”

If I ever have kids, I might have one simple rule. Or a few simple rules.

Dear future children of mine:

1) Don’t vote Republican.

2) Don’t get facial tattoos.

3) Don’t read my memoir.

I don’t need my currently unmade children to be reading about their dear dad during his brief foray into the world of professional dominatrixing, even if it was brief.

The first poem I loved was by Yeats: “When You Are Old”. I sent it to my high-school non-girlfriend. The girl I longed for, unrequitedly. I’m guessing I’m not the first person to have sent “When You Are Old” to an unrequited love.

Today the sky was so strangely clear. I mean, the sky is almost always clear. We live in a desert. But today it felt strangely clear, like something was missing. The sun felt magnified.

And then, at dusk, I noticed the gold light slanting through some oak trees and hitting the green sides of the mountains (they were green as we actually had rain over the winter). The wild flowers catch the slanting gold light and you wonder, this is a city? What the fuck is this baffling place?

I add the “fuck” for street cred. Or trail cred, as I’m probably hiking. As I’m a cliché.

You hike, or I hike, in the middle of a city of almost 20 million people and you’re alone. Just the crows and the spiralling hawks and the slanting gold light touching the oak trees and the soon-to-go-away
wild flowers.

The end of the world just feels closer here, but it’s nice, somehow. Maybe the actual end of the world won’t be so nice but the temporal proximity can be OK. In the slanting gold light. You have to see it, the canyons in shadow and the tops of the hills in one last soft glow.

What a strange non-city.

 

25 May

They asked for only four journal entries, so here’s the last one.

And why is # a “hashtag”?

Hash? Like weird meat or weird marijuana? Tag, like the game?

At least “blog” has an etymology, even if, as a word, it sounds like a fat clog in a drain.

A friend who works in an emergency room had a patient delivered to her who had a croquet ball in his lower intestine. I guess there’s a lesson there: always have friends who work in emergency rooms, as they have the best stories.

No coyotes tonight. But there’s a long, lonesome, faraway train whistle or horn. Where?

Where in LA would there be a long, lonesome, faraway train whistle or horn?

It’s such a faraway sound. Lonesome hoboes watching the desert from an empty train car. Going where?

I met a woman recently who found human body parts in some bags while she
was hiking.

Technically, her dogs found them.

Then she found the dogs.

And then the sky was full of helicopters, as even in LA it’s unusual to have human hands and things left in bags near a hiking trail a few hundred yards from Brad Pitt’s house.

What is this place?

When I used to visit LA, I marvelled at the simple things, like gas stations and guest bedrooms.

I was a New Yorker.

And the gas stations took credit cards. At. The. Pumps.

What was this magic?

And people had Donald Judd beds in their living rooms, just slightly too small for actual sleeping – but, still, there’s your Donald Judd bed. In your living room at the top of the hill somewhere, with an ocean a dozen miles away but so clear you can see Catalina.

They drained the reservoir and now don’t know what to do with it.

Good old LA, confused by things like empty reservoirs in the middle of the city.

Maybe that’s where the lonesome train lives. And it only comes out at night, to make the sound of a lonesome train whistle, echoing from the empty concrete reservoir that’s left the city nonplussed.

“We’ve never had an empty reservoir in the city before.”

So . . . Do something great with it. I know, it’s a burden being given a huge gift of ­empty real estate in the middle of the city.

Tomorrow I’m meeting some more friends who’ve moved here from New York.

“We have a guest bedroom!” they crow.

A century ago, the Griffith Park planners planted redwoods across the street. And now the moon is waning but shining, far away but soft, through the redwoods.

No coyotes, but a waning moon through some towering redwoods is still really OK. As it’s a city that isn’t a city, and it’s my home.

Goodnight.

Moby’s memoir, “Porcelain”, is published by Faber & Faber

This article first appeared in the 26 May 2016 issue of the New Statesman, The Brexit odd squad