It’s not a story. These facts are tempered somewhat. Without all its rawness.
The magazine Le Nouvel Observateur told a dramatic event for years. Vasoukafis was a retired journalist. And that’s it. He lived in Athens in a modest apartment in an equally modest building. The only friend, also a journalist, lived in the apartment next door.
He went on the journey without a return, which is the fate of the people. Vasoukafis was even more lonely in the emptiness and hostility of the world. Lifting with the weight of his 57 years. Troika stuff!
The apartment that my only friend had rented out. Leased again. It became Local Accommodation (AL). Some today, others tomorrow, then others. Successively.
Vasoukafis’ already poor health, peace, tranquility, and even security were swept away by the ongoing storms of AL inmates. That they stole the bitter silence of loneliness.
Requests, phone calls, messages and emails that are ignored by those in power. A petition was generated on the internet that thousands have subscribed to. For silence, for omission, for broken promises.
Authorities promote tourism. They despise their citizens who languish day after day with endless taxes and fees. You license ALs in other people’s buildings. No criteria.
Begged for justice, helped the police, the city council. In his view, everything he believed to help him. After all, I thought, I have been defending a universal right, the right to housing, for so many years, and now I live in a hole in which I muffled with alarming noises that invade my brain all the time!
Our Greek was desperate. The noise, the festivities, the disgusting smell of narcotics, the AL’s screams didn’t allow him to see and hear even the only contact he had with the world that belonged to him: television. At least the news broadcast!
Life was quick and bitter. The AL evaded the tax authorities. It grew on income billed to loud, restless, and disrespectful guests. Vasoukafis was getting old, the calendar never stopped. Time passed imperceptibly and slowly. He begged the guests, almost on his knees, to pity his status as a fifty-seven-year-old citizen.
In the eyes of the Greeks, the urge for justice germinated. His justice, Vasoukafis. On a gray and sad morning in Athens, the Greeks took the train. He ended up on an old family member’s farm. I wanted to get the shotgun. Shoot rats at home! He returned at night. He decided that he would no longer endure this agony. The sound was hellish. The shrill scream. The music in such decibels that it didn’t even sound like music. The knock shuddered in his modest apartment.
Vasoukafis was exhausted. Physically and mentally depressed. He was lost and never found himself again. “After all, I’m a citizen!” He thought. At dawn he knocked on the next door and threw the bag at the first guest who came to see him.
The magazine states that the Greek is now watching the news quietly in the Athens prison. It is also said that the punishment is fair, since the guest’s life represents a value that is superior to the Greek’s silence.
He adds that the police, city council, and condominium administration are also in charge. Not as the perpetrator of the murder. But because they didn’t do anything, they were able to avoid it (“conditio sine qua non”).
That’s what the magazine says.
Not the Greek. Because there were laws, regulations, and public notices that forced guests to act like neighbors. Everything has systematically failed. Mistreated.
For him, Vasoukafis, there was only the criminal code. Says the Greek!