Author: Rory Rusnak

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He Who Believes Shall Not Be Afraid

For Israelis in Greece, navigating increased political tension is an exercise in understanding nuance, and standing their ground.

In central Athens, a group of two-hundred attendees were sitting at long-tables in the spacious dining hall of Athens Beit Chabad. It was Shabbat at Athens’ Orthodox-Jewish community centre, and, over a three-course Middle-Eastern meal, alongside profusions of wine and grape juice, a heterodox group of Jews – primarily Greek and Israeli, but from other European countries too – were singing traditional Hebrew zemirot and conversing, a cacophony of simultaneous Hebrew, English and Greek voices filling the room.  Gabriel Axelrod*, a tourist from Israel, introduced himself as the meal began. A Jerusalem resident, he  – alongside his three Israeli friends – had come to Athens for a Green Day concert, andhad wound up at Chabad in search of some good food – and a sense of community.

“We’re not baby killers,” he proclaimed, after introducing himself, to which his friends erupted in laughter. He clarified this was ironic, a not-so-subtle retort to assumptions that Israelis, by virtue of their partaking in mandatory IDF service, are all involved in the killing of innocent civilians of Gaza, which, since October 7th, 2023 has been embroiled in a bitter war with Israel.

Although it’s some 2000 miles away, the war between Israel and Gaza has had a decisive impact on Greece. While short-term travel to Greece has yet to surpass pre-war levels, in large part because of airport closures in Israel following the outbreak of the Iran-Israel war in June, some 10,000 israelis have chosen to relocate from Israel since October 7th, utilizing the “golden visa” program – which permits five-year residency in the E.U. upon a 250,000 property investment. In fact, between August of 2023 and October of 2024, there was a 70% increase in Golden Visa permits for Israelis, jumping from 159 to 271 permits.

 

For Asi Doron, an Israeli real-estate agent based in Athens, after October 7th, he noticed an increase in calls to his office, with people wishing to either invest or live full or part time in property in Greece. “People wanted a Plan B, another place outside of Israel,” citing a trifecta of proximity, safety and cheap property. On a rooftop café overlooking Syntagma Square, he points out the Athens neighbourhoods he has sold or rented out properties in — Exarchia, Pangrati, and Koukaki, to name a few.

For Doron, he understands that the reason why many Israelis want to move to Greece is also because of the cultural similarities between the two people. “We are like brothers,” he says, highlighting a shared sense of humour and warmth. But, as many Israelis move to Greece, the native population has become steadily more anti-Israel. Between November of 2023, and June of 2025, support for Israel fell 14%, from 34% to 20%. In the streets of Athens, protests for Palestine have garnered thousands of attendees, who have demanded, among other chief demands, an end to the blockade of goods to Gaza by the Israeli government, and criticisms of the ‘pro-Israel politics’ of Greece.

Most unique to Athens however, is the abundance of pro-Palestinian graffiti across the city. Graffiti has long occupied an important role in social movements in Greece, acting as a barometer for public opinion on the most contentious of issues. Following the Greek financial crisis in 2008, graffiti became a popular mode of protest. Murals sprouted up in Exarcheia, the former Anarchist-run neighbourhood, to give image to the government’s policies of financial austerity. Now, the new graffiti is primarily anti-Israeli – “DEATH TO ZIONISTS” / “IDF NOT WELCOME,” – compact declarations usually written in English script, easily understood by passersby.

For Israelis in Athens, this is a complex issue to navigate. When Axelrod came to Athens, as he walked around the city, and saw sign after sign of anti-Israeli messaging, it spawned uncomfortable questions in his head:  “Am I safe here? Is someone going to attack me? Should I be scared of speaking in Hebrew?” ”Ultimately, he decided that the best approach — for himself and his friends — was ignorance: “I told them, ‘I don’t want my trip ruined, so let’s ignore it.’”

For the permanent Israeli residents of Athens, however, ignorance is a luxury that they can’t afford. The defamatory graffiti that Axelrod passed by on vacation is the same type that lines the roads of these Israeli’s homes and businesses. For Yair Grossman, head of Mazi Athens, the only community space for Israelis in the city, the graffiti is a point of contention within the community. According to Grossman, “The first year and-a-half after October 7th, they did graffiti… mostly about ‘peace.’ It became really extremist, and the things that we find now on the street are horrendous.” Grossman sends images of particularly violent graffiti to the authorities, for cover-up. One particular example: a sign which read “Kill All Jews.”

Beyond the physical manifestations of anti-Israeli sentiment in Greece, though, within the Israeli community, there’s an internal lack of safety. A contemporary Greek source, for example, refused to give quotes because she believed it could jeopardize her colleagues’ lives if she were quoted.  There’s a fear that the very lives of Israelis might be in danger if they choose to speak out in support of Israel. It’s not an unfounded fear: in June, two Israelis were stabbed in central Athens, for the crime of speaking in their native tongue, Hebrew.

There is, however, a general understanding that the more radical anti-Israel voices aren’t representative of the Greek public:  “The Greeks, generally speaking, love Israelis as much as we love them in return,” says Grossman. According to him, it’s an “extremist minority” who is spreading the vehemently anti-Israeli sentiment.

For him, the removal of graffiti is important, then, not as an act of resistance against this minority, but because it ensures that  “Israeli locals and tourists feel welcomed and not afraid.” It’s part of the reasoning why Grossman is planning on directing an even more concerted group to remove graffitis and posters, which he loosely describes as a ‘league.’

This nuanced understanding underscores the Israeli attitude towards the rising political tension in Greece: even for Axelrod, who was unaccustomed to such violent displays of graffiti against his home country, and people, he wouldn’t write off traveling to Greece again, “if it stays…. bearable.”

In the meantime, as Israelis continue to travel and move to Greece, and the existing community finds its place, the lyrics of the zemirot, Me Shemmamin, provide a powerful mantra for the state of Israeli life in Greece:  “He who believes shall not be afraid.”

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Where Are All The People Now?


It was late in the Summer of 2023, and the Greek island of Paros was rejoicing: it wasn’t just the summer festivities that had residents jubilant. On the sandy beaches of Santa Maria and Marcello, a people’s movement was coalescing in real time.

The Save Paros movement, a hundreds-strong group of Parean citizens upset with the rise of illegal sunbeds on their beaches, were protesting for their constitutional right to lounge on public beaches to be honoured. The fight was a mobilizing one that led to concrete actions by the federal government, who levied fines against illegal sunbed operators.

For activists, including Caroline Hall, one of the founders of the Save Paros Movement, the feeling was hopeful: “The people had collaborated and been victorious.”

For activists like Hall, it felt like this could be a watershed moment: finally, the people could rise up against the overtourism the island had experienced in recent years. But two years later, from the perch of her farm-house in the hill-top settlement of Kamares overlooking the sea, she asks: where are all the people now?


The story of Paros, as a town, has been intertwined with tourism since the mid-century, when the notion of the “Greek Summer” became increasingly romanticized among European tourists. Paros, with its aquamarine water and picture-perfect white towns, was the ideal place to vacation. It wasn’t until the late 2010s, however, that Paros became a point of pillage for foreign investors who jumped at the opportunity to buy cheap land in the islands. According to Giorgios Lialios, a journalist at Kathemerini who reports on climate and tourism, the effects were “a disaster.” Vacation homes and have used up the island’s scarce water supply, and many of them were – and still are – illegally constructed on unofficial roads, violating Greece’s strict zoning laws. Despite the effects on locals, unlike with private beaches, the public response has been muted. According to Hall, where hundreds used to attend citizens’ meetings, only “20 people show up now.”

Why is this? For many Pareans, the allure of foreign investment is too strong a pull to resist. According to Paros’ mayor, Costas Bizas, the island of 20,000 – without a university or proper medical facilities – isn’t suited for young people or the elderly, for whom the chance to cash out on their land and move to Athens “out of necessity” is a bet they’re willing to take, regardless of the effect it might have on the island.

Where does this leave the fight against over-development, then? Where public support is concerned, the citizens’ movement is in the process of pursuing legal battles against the construction of illegal properties on the island, and a new urban plan for the island that decides which areas are suitable for construction is currently in its consultation phase. For Hall, the future of the island’s development “is unclear.” For now, though, at least they have the beaches.

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Where Are All The People Now?

A galvanising fight to democratise the beaches of Paros inspired hope for activists on the island. Now, as the prospect of over-development threatens the nature of the island, is that same fighting energy replicable?

 

It was late in the Summer of 2023, and the Greek island of Paros was rejoicing: it wasn’t just the summer festivities that had residents jubilant. On the sandy beaches of Santa Maria and Marcello, a people’s movement was coalescing in real time.

The Save Paros movement, a hundreds-strong group of Parean citizens upset with the rise of illegal sunbeds on their beaches, were protesting for their constitutional right to lounge on public beaches to be honoured. The fight was a mobilizing one that led to concrete actions by the federal government, who levied fines against illegal sunbed operators.

For activists, including Caroline Hall, one of the founders of the Save Paros Movement, the feeling was hopeful: “The people had collaborated and been victorious.”

For activists like Hall, it felt like this could be a watershed moment: finally, the people could rise up against the overtourism the island had experienced in recent years. But two years later, from the perch of her farm-house in the hill-top settlement of Kamares overlooking the sea, she asks: where are all the people now?


The story of Paros, as a town, has been intertwined with tourism since the mid-century, when the notion of the “Greek Summer” became increasingly romanticized among European tourists. Paros, with its aquamarine water and picture-perfect white towns, was the ideal place to vacation. It wasn’t until the late 2010s, however, that Paros became a point of pillage for foreign investors who jumped at the opportunity to buy cheap land in the islands. According to Giorgios Lialios, a journalist at Kathemerini who reports on climate and tourism, the effects were “a disaster.” Vacation homes and have used up the island’s scarce water supply, and many of them were – and still are – illegally constructed on unofficial roads, violating Greece’s strict zoning laws. Despite the effects on locals, unlike with private beaches, the public response has been muted. According to Hall, where hundreds used to attend citizens’ meetings, only “20 people show up now.”

Why is this? For many Pareans, the allure of foreign investment is too strong a pull to resist. According to Paros’ mayor, Costas Bizas, the island of 20,000 – without a university or proper medical facilities – isn’t suited for young people or the elderly, for whom the chance to cash out on their land and move to Athens “out of necessity” is a bet they’re willing to take, regardless of the effect it might have on the island.

Where does this leave the fight against over-development, then? Where public support is concerned, the citizens’ movement is in the process of pursuing legal battles against the construction of illegal properties on the island, and a new urban plan for the island that decides which areas are suitable for construction is currently in its consultation phase. For Hall, the future of the island’s development “is unclear.” For now, though, at least they have the beaches.

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On Athens Time

It was five in the morning and outside the black receptacle that is SMUT, one of Athens’ premier techno clubs,  the party was moving outside. There were still five hours left in the program for the night’s lineup, but streaming out of the venue, with handheld fans and smudged eyeliner, a mass of ravers were forgoing the bass to congregate on the road, splaying on the sidewalks and leaned up against the tyres of parked cars with water bottles in hands, deep in debrief.

Arriving in Athens last week, one of the first things that struck me was how the city comes alive at night. During the day, the cloying heat makes going out impossible, or, at the least, an uncomfortable exercise in jumping from shadow to shadow to avoid the harsh summer sun. But, during the night, as temperatures become cooler, the landscape – from the benches in Syntagma Square to the side streets of Exarchia – transforms into a space of connection for nocturnal Athenians. “A big home,” is how Anastasiia Mitrohina, a SMUT patron who moved to the city two months ago described the outdoor culture to me, “especially when it’s hot.”

For Athenians, the outdoors has long represented a natural plane of connection. According to Panos Dragonas, a professor of architecture based out of the University of Patras,  the phrase of the Greek intellectual Pericles Giannopoulos – ‘life in Greece is outdoors’ – has long been a guiding vision for Greek residential architecture, made evident through the terraces and green spaces ubiquitous in and around most apartment buildings. As someone who grew up in Ireland, socialising outdoors is an unfamiliar concept. In Dublin, where summer nights rarely reach above 15 degrees Celsius and are typically accompanied by a smattering of rain, the outdoors are largely inaccessible. Social life is pushed indoors, into pubs where buying a drink is the price of entry, and limited seating means people are often turned away. In that sense, the city feels like it’s behind a paywall: unlike in Athens, access to being part of the community often comes at a literal price.

Back at SMUT, it was seven in the morning. The sun had risen and all around, ravers were picking themselves up off the sidewalk and rushing into their cabs. The wait for my own Uber gave me ample time to reflect on the nightlife of Athens I had experienced thus far – from midnight runs to the local periptero to late-night dinners at restaurants in our own neighbourhood of Pangrati. Sitting on the sidewalk, I felt certain of two things: I’d sleep through the heat when I got home, and this summer, the night would be there for us always, extending an open invitation.

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Rory Rusnak

 

Rory Rusnak is a member of Princeton’s Class of 2028, a prospective anthropology major who plants to pursue minors in journalism and creative  writing. He is a part of the Features  section of The Daily Princetonian. Outside of this, he has reported on youth movements, the climate crisis and local politics. His current reporting interests include art and culture. 

 

“On Athens Time” / “Where Are All The People Now?” / “He Who Believes Shall Not Be Afraid”