Photo: Refugee temporary accommodation by IOM, Athens, November 17, 2020.
In Iran, when the last days of a administrative come around, they do not go out with humility. No. They celebrate. They build stages and stand behind microphones, handing each other awards and shaking hands like they just saved the country. Ministers smile into cameras, deputies bow their heads in thanks, and the papers the next day are full of speeches about progress. But none of it is real. Not the progress. Not the smiles. The people know this. We know this. It’s all for the photograph. It’s all for history books nobody will read. Four years go by, the names change, the faces age, but the suffering stays the same. No one asks the people what they feel. And if they do, they don’t listen.
In Greece, I have seen something very close. They speak of fighting racism here—on the news, in public buildings, in well-lit halls where tea is served and everyone claps at the end. They make posters and brochures in multiple languages. They invite one or two migrants to speak, migrants who already speak Greek fluently, who already look like they belong, and they place them carefully on panels, like ornaments. Like proof. And then they move on.
The truth is, the people who run these programs, these councils and committees, are not the ones who live with racism. They are not the ones being stopped by police on the street. They are not the ones searching for work and hearing, “We’ll call you,” knowing the call will never come. They are not the ones living five to a room, cleaning rich people’s houses, or picking fruit in the sun. The ones in charge of anti-racism rarely speak to those who live under racism. They speak above them. They speak around them.
I remember once going to a “diversity workshop” in Athens. It was in a municipal building, with cold air and warm coffee. The chairs were set in a circle. The moderator asked everyone to introduce themselves and share “one thing they love about diversity.” I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. How do you love something you don’t even understand? How do you celebrate diversity while keeping the same five people in power, year after year? These people do not want change. They want applause. They want to be seen as good. That’s all.
I don’t say this out of bitterness. I say this because I have lived it. I have seen what happens when people fight racism only when it is convenient, only when it makes them look noble. I have seen what happens when refugee voices are only welcomed as decoration. We become stories, not people. We are brought out like candles during a power outage, only to be blown out once the lights come back on.
And because the same names keep running the show, because the system never opens itself to new voices, the anger builds up. I have seen young people, passionate and alive, shut out of these spaces. I have seen them lose hope. I have felt it in myself. They say, “Maybe next year.” But next year never comes.
I remember during the height of the tension at the Eleonas refugee camp, when we raised our voices and said, let the refugees speak for themselves. What we got in return wasn’t support—it was erasure. The ones who said they were fighting racism, who organized seminars and festivals in its name, silenced us long before the police or the state ever showed up. That’s the part nobody wants to talk about. But many of us lived it. And many more still do.
So the fight against racism becomes a theater. A play with too many acts and no ending. The audience claps politely, and everyone goes home unchanged. The system stays untouched, unbothered, unmoved. The schools remain hostile. The police remain brutal. The landlords still lie. And no one is held accountable.
When we speak, when we shout, when we protest, they call it “aggression.” They ask for peace, for order. They want us quiet, reasonable, grateful. They want us to ask for dignity in the right way. But tell me, when has the right way ever worked? Tell me how silence has ever freed a person. Tell me why a refugee must smile while drowning.
The fight against racism is not supposed to be gentle. It is supposed to disturb. It is supposed to be loud. It is supposed to make people uncomfortable. Because if the people in charge are not uncomfortable, then nothing is changing.
What they fear most is not our anger—it is our organization. They fear what happens when we gather, when we speak to each other without permission. When we form our own collectives. When we stop waiting for the system to save us. That is when they panic. That is when the funding dries up, the buildings close, the police come.
But that is also when we begin.
We do not need to be included in their spaces to fight. We can build our own. We can create spaces where no one is treated as a guest. Where nobody has to prove their pain. We can build assemblies, homes, classrooms, and kitchens. And from those spaces, we can fight—not for diversity, but for justice. Not for tolerance, but for freedom.
You see, tolerance is a weak word. It means “I will allow you to be here.” But freedom means “you belong here as much as anyone.” And the people in charge of these diversity programs, they do not want freedom. They want control. They want to manage the noise, not hear the truth.
But the truth is here. It lives in the hearts of those sleeping in squats, in camps, in basements. It walks with the woman who cleans offices at night, who sends money back to her family in silence. It cries in the man who cannot sleep because of what he saw before he crossed the sea. It laughs in the children who still dance, still hope, still dream.
The truth is this: racism will not be ended by panels or pamphlets. It will not be solved by grants or speeches. It will end when the people who benefit from it are forced to give up their comfort. It will end when those who suffer under it are given power. Real power. The power to decide. To change laws. To run schools. To control resources. To build futures.
Until then, this fight will continue. Not because we want it, but because we have no choice. Because every day we walk these streets, we carry the weight of being foreign, being different, being unwanted. But we also carry fire. And that fire will not go out.
They will try to replace our stories with statistics. They will try to replace our faces with logos. They will try to replace our struggle with slogans. But we are still here. Still breathing. Still watching. And when the time comes, we will not ask for permission. We will rise.
What you think?