The archaeology of in-between places Finds under the Ilissós River bridge in

Abstract The ongoing recession has provided new layers in the tangible and intangible palimpsests in the city of Athens, especially in its neglected urban pockets that can be central but always outside the city’s normal, social life. This paper arises from my experience of participating in a cleaning activity under the Anapáfseos Street Bridge over the encased Ilissós River in central Athens in September 2010. In it I challenge Formatted: English (United States) the official rhetoric regarding the use of marginal sites for parasitic activities, transforming by re-appropriating urban waste into empirical evidence and attempting to read through the lines of the graffiti left behind by a community of migrants that used the bridge as a temporary camp site. By providing an alternative reading of the bridge as an in-between spaceplace, this paper seeks to problematise the assimilation of hidden communities in the city. It can also be considered as a gesture of contemporary-urban archaeology, a way to both approach and understand these communities in a form of a publicly engaged and politically relevant archaeological practice.

Black spots on the map of Athens Late modern era urbanscapes are dotted with obscure spaces, in-between places into which neoliberal activities and their policing have been siphoning irregular citizens and parasitic activities: a landscape feature spared by ever expanding urban development, an alley, a forgotten park, an unattended archaeological site gobbled up by the commodified surroundings. These neglected niches are segregated from the ‘normal’ social life of the city, forming seemingly ‘urban gaps’, and destined for use by the subaltern populations that inhabit or use them (the homeless, undocumented immigrants, drug users). In the course of time, they amass rare textures in overlooked palimpsests that, if properly studied and interpreted, can provide us with a better and politically relevant understanding of contemporary urban life.

This process becomes more evident in cities undergoing social and political stress, altering the meanings, uses and textures of their public space and enriching these Formatted: Font color: Text 1 neglected urban pockets in a manner that could not have easily been predicted Formatted: Font color: Text 1 (Harvey 2013). Athens is a paradigmatic case study, especially when examined Formatted: Font color: Text 1 through the lenses of the ‘Greek crisis’ and the austerity narratives, clinging on the Formatted: Font: (Default) Calibri, Font color: Text 1 Greek capital in the last decade (Tziovas 2018). See for example the Pedíon Áreos Park enclosed in 1930s by the state the public area in Kypséli, Athens, which -in the 1930s- Formatted: Font color: Text 1 was converted into the state-owned Pedíon Áreos Park to commemorate the fighters Formatted: Font color: Text 1 of the Greek War of Independence. Up until the 1980s it was systematically used by the Athenians as a place for recreation. In the middle of 1990s the Region of Attica, the administrating body of the park, was accused of mismanagement after it lowered its annual budget and reduced the number of personnel tending to it, prompting marked decline in visitor numbers that contributed to its developing ‘liminal’ status (see below). In 2008-2010 the park underwent systematic renovations, however, these failed to bring back its former visitors. In the summer of 2015, a side-episode of the refugee crisis in the Mediterranean brought 50 families from Afghanistan to the

1 park for more than a month, sparking a wide public response that varied from a heart- warming solidarity movement to complains about the unguarded, degenerate state of one of the biggest parks in Athens (Tsagkari 2014). Since 2016, the park has been used for prostitution and drug dealing after the police pushed the latter away from nearby areas such as Tosítsa Street and Váthis Square.

In generalndeed, these in-between spacesplaces, as the Pedíon Áreos Park, have caught the attention of the newly formed grass-roots collectives that engage in reclaiming and/or, cleaning and tidying up marginal urban spaces for the betterment of the life in their area of interest. Depending on the initiative, their activities produce new public or common outlets for the people of Athens or merely contribute in their gentrification from the bottom up (Lekakis 2013b, 77).

Four kilometres to the South of Pedíon Áreos Park lies Anapáfseos Street Bridge, the last remaining bridge of the historic Ilissós River, now running channeled under the centre of Athens. The space under the bridge and the remnants of the submerged valley of Ilissós (Agía Photiní Park), are being used by different communities and for a variety of reasons. Although cruising-for-sex and new-age activities seem to have been a constant historically, the residence/use of the site by a small community of migrants for several months, sometime in the years 2005-2009, provides a new perspective in the discussion of in-between places, especially when considered through the material remains left behind.

In this paper, I will be reflecting on my participation in the cleaning activity of Agía Photiní Park in 2010, as a member of the MONUMENTA NGO, attempting an archaeological reading of the material culture and the graffiti on the walls of the bridge. Thus, following the systematic and documentative work of MONUMENTA and contrary to the Although ostensibly ‘apolitical’ character of , these beautifying activities by various collectives that have the effect of purgeing all traces of various temporary, unofficial, and transitory uses of the urban spaces, I propose that . The lack of documentation of the material remains discardedfrom in-between spaces, can illuminate further conceals latent textures and marginal activities tucked away at the corners of the city, along with the communities that occupy them. What is more, I believe that encompassing them in the interpretative narrative It might also apprehend a moremight allow for a more political understanding of the city and the impact of neoliberal economics on the precarious lives of the dispossessed communities in the city.

Spaces outside the city’s normality Politically informed Geography and other disciplines have systematically commented on the production and representation of contemporary cities; metropolises formed inside the jutting forces and spaces of neoliberalism and the omnipresent dogma of development to cater for the ‘proper’ citizen, the working, law-abiding, tax-payer (Lefebvre 1991; Lefebvre 2014; Harvey 2001). However, far less attention has been paid to what we can call in-between spacesplaces: the left-over spaces/areas, commonly omitted from developmental projects which fall between gentrified areas

2

(Graves-Brown 2016, 63). These spaces might include alleys, dead-ends, edges of motorways, abandoned complexes, unattended parks, archaeological sites, old buildings, ruins, slums or deserted plots. They are sequestered away from the formal life of the city, laying in common view but still invisible to the public eye. More often than not, these spaces are inaccessible to the respectable everyday citizen as they shelter the Others: the dispossessed, the subaltern, as for example, the homeless, beggars, prostitutes, undocumented immigrants, refugees and irregular activities, as rough sleeping, drug use and heavy drinking (Harvey 2013; Morris 2010).

Even a cursory review of the scholarly literature on in-between places is enough to demonstrate that the manner in which they are categorised is problematic. Referred to as “marginal”, “liminal” or “interstitial” in-between spaces places are typically grouped together with other ‘non-proper spaces’ in ill-defined categories, resulting in obscure generalisations such as ‘all spaces that cannot be categorised’. Inconsistencies in their description, in terms of scale, function and potential (Harrison & Schofield 2010, 249-281) are equally commonplace.

Augé’s arguments discussing the parent category of ‘non-proper’ spaces 'are widely cited in discussions of this topic. In his widely-referenced work, Augé coins the term “non-lieux” (non-place) to refer to the unmediated spaces produced in supermodernity, for example, the architectural installations associated with the circulation of passengers and goods or with leisure and temporary residence (airports, hotel chains, malls) (Augé 1995, 78). These spaces evoke a shared identity on the basis of solitary contractuality of their users (passengers and customers), instead of the organic sociality of any other place (Augé 1995, 34, 94). As such they are non-places; conclusively but still vaguely defined as each “space which cannot be defined as relational, or historical, or concerned with identity” (Augé 1995, 83).

On the other hand, this all-inclusive, debasing negation, recurring in their description1, hints at a series of negative aspects that these spaces hold. These are dead-end spaces that you cannot relate with as in ‘normal’ places of the city. They linger blank and blunt, devoid of meaningful social interaction. They are stable and perhaps under- utilized since there the city has yet to fulfil its potential but also in a state of future development, in order to be enveloped in the positive reality and acquire a status of affirmation, as a ‘place’ (Carmona & Wunderlich 2012, 223-244; Loukaitou‐Sideris 1996, 92).

This passivity can only be understood, if perceived through the lenses of the ‘normality’, organized, produced and controlled by the neoliberal concept of the city and its relevant manipulation of the everyday life: how each space and area in the city should look like, if aligned with the authoritative scenario of an entrepreneurial, active, safe, colourful, sustainable and inclusive city, littered with the occasional non- places, counterparts of normality, that affirm the general concept (Lefebvre 1991).

1 See e.g. “Interstitial” and “liminal” places, as “not on the way to anywhere” (Graves-Brown 2016, 57-58 or Harrison & Schofield 2010, 227), “lost space” and “antispaces” (Trancik 1986, 3-4) or “slack” (Worpole & Knox 2007, 14). 3

The reproduction of the neoliberal agenda in the everyday life that defines what and when everything is ‘normal’, apart from constructing this utopian or dystopic scenario -depending on the end of the spectrum you are standing- produces these ‘negative’ spaces actively directed to people that do not align with the proper citizen, the Other, the oppressed, the human waste, the subaltern (Morris 2010; Loukaitou‐Sideris 1996; Carmona and Wunderlich 2012, 222; Frank and Stevens 2007). In a paradigmatic feat of spatial injustice (Philippopoulos-Mihalopoulos 2015), these ‘non-proper’ people are pushed into the ‘non-proper’, in-between spacesplaces, along with various illegal and parasitic activities, according to the contemporary neoliberal scenario of development and well-being, as in the latter years of Pedíon Áreos Park, described above (Harvey 2013, 59).

Non-proper spaces for the non-proper people However, although negative in the neoliberal imagination, the in-between spaces sites are not static, since they continue to function as places; they are vibrant and imbued with complex meanings from the hidden and mobile communities occupying them; meanings formed in unconventional and transitory ways and also holding an interesting tangible and intangible palimpsest, as we will examine below in the case of Anapáfseos Street Bridge of Ilissós River.

People convert random spaces into places of meaning, according to the social theory, appropriating and transforming space, reproducing their era and social/political burdens, but most importantly investing ideas and values and by that signifying ownership and belonging (Bourdieu 1985; De Certeau 1988; Lefebvre 1991; Tilley 2006). “Place incarnates the experiences and aspirations of a people” (Tuan 1979, 387) and this is what archaeological and anthropological literature has been striving to understand by studying the processes involved and interpreting the data collected in historic or modern sites and /landscapes (Ashmore & Knapp 2003; Bender 1998; Ingold 2013; Tilley 2006). In the case of the in-between places we are examining, the act of place making is more convoluted; it is happening in the shadows, in the dwellings of the subaltern, concealed from the public eye or in transit and involves small acts of day by day transformations, relevant to various people and /communities occupying the space and participating in the process (Bender 2001, 82; Soto 2017, 175). The meaning created is challenged, overwritten, subsided or comes back stronger, always in the making, producing new and sometimes unexpected effects and affects, especially when considered in its historicity (Ranciére 2010, 59; Stavrides 2016, 54; Whitehead & Bozoğlu 2017, 115-116).

To approach these spaces, we have to meticulously and analytically organize our tools, employing mixed and hybrid methods. These will help us discuss the meaning generated in these spaces, in a process of involving more than their annotation but rather the tracing of the communities that are appropriating themit. In-between spaces can only be understood with the communities that dwell in them.

To attempt this we need to re-purpose all the available material and digital remains of the in-between spaces places into empirical data; These might include graffiti

4 analysis, waste observation and classification, digital ethnography (Rathje 2001; Zaimakis 2015; Zimmerman 2010; Frederick 2009; Kourelis 2017; Coleman 2010) and of course more personal engagements, as the recent array of ethnographic studies with homeless people and undocumented migrants (Kiddey 2017; De León 2015; Lopez 2015).

In the course of study, we could identify motives, meanings, rhetorics, strategies of the people behind in-between spaces places and possibly use it as leverage to review policies for these hidden communities. However, as any archaeology, anthropology or ethnography of contemporaneity, our results can never be finite (Augé 1995, 40-41) and will always be vulnerable to the capital and its aspirations, as in-between spaces places and the communities that reside in them.

On the banks of Ilissós River Ilissós River was one of the two main rivers of Athens, springing from the north- western slopes of Hymettus Mountain, flowing on the east and southern part of the historic centre of the city towards the Faliron Gulf. In the idyllic landscape the river formed (Plato, Phaedrus: 229-230), ancient Athenians constructed a number of public buildings, including the renowned Parilissian Sanctuaries on its northern bank (6th c. BC – 2nd AD), between the temple of Olympian Zeus and the walls of the city, West of Ardittos hill (Travlos 2005), our area of focus in this paper. One of these sanctuaries, sheltering Hekate’s cult, the goddess of night and witchcraft, was substituted in post- byzantine times by the church of Agía Photiní (lit. the luminous) of Ilissós, devoted to the Samaritan prostitute that Jesus converted by Jacob’s Well (The Bible, The book of RevelationJohn 4: 4-26). In the 18th c. the area became a pilgrimage for Muslims, while Formatted: English (United Kingdom) retaining its religious and mystical vibes, hosting several magic rituals alongside the river (Hobhouse 1813; Lekakis 2010).

In 1833, this area of Ilissós was left outside the easternmost boundaries of the first urban plan of Athens; abandoned and inaccessible, “a sad relic of the glory of Athens” (Bougiouka & Megaridis 2017, 37). A few years later, in the middle of the 19th c., Athenian entrepreneurs installed makeshift sheds, nicknamed ‘Pantremenádika’ (for/of the married) and rented them by the hour. In the 1870’s several music clubs were built in the vicinity, hosting variety nights, commonly performed by female artisans (Bougiouka & Megaridis 2017, 41, 49). However, the gentrification of the area, especially in the last quarter of the century (for example, the construction of the Záappeion exhibition centre, 1874-1888), gradually confined these ‘recreational uses’, as more Athenians set in, opting for the cheaper suburbs of the city, instead of the costly city centre; a process that actually led to the inclusion of the area in the urban plans of Athens in 1885 and 1892. However, the notoriety of the area lingered in later years: “What do you want to know? All the clubs were there, you could take your girl and go or you could go alone, if you know what I mean”, says Mr. Costas2, a centenary football player, describing the area in the interwar period. Nowadays, this area of Ilissós, cornered by the expanding city development & gentrification of the surrounding neighbourhoods, responsible for the removal -in the late 1960s- of an

2 The names of the interviewees are pseudonyms. 5 autonomous refugee settlement, further upstream, on the western bank of the river (Philippides 1974), hosts relevant notorious activities along with new-age enthusiasts that look for the magical affinities of the area, as we will discuss further on. What is more, this area also sheltered the par excellence subaltern of our era: a community of migrants.

The Anapáfseos Street Bridge Part of the public infrastructure built in the 19th c. in an attempt to urbanize and gentrify this part of the city was the Anapáfseos Street Bridge, ninety meters southeast to the church of Agía Photiní (Figure 01). Originally, the bridge would have been aligned to the North with the Athanasíou Diákou Street and Dionysíou Areopagítou Street further West and to the South with the Anapáfseos Street, forming a scenic boulevard South of the archaeological sites of Olympieion and the Acropolis, over Ilissós to the developing, South-Eastern part of the city and the First Cemetery of Athens.

The three-arched bridge was built during the mayorship of I. Kóniaris (1851-1854) and renovated later, during the mayorship of L. Koromilás (1895-1899). The name of the first is inscribed on its northern façade that probably also bears the crests of King Otto (1832-1862). Even though the inscription is still visible, the crests are covered by the cement pillars holding its encasement structure; this was built in the 1960’s, during the last phase of the underground channeling of Ilissós, to support the traffic laden crossroads above the bridge towards the Piraeus port, the centre of Athens, Pangráti and Ilíssia to mention only few of the destinations3 (Figure 01, Figure 03).

Nowadays, hardly anyone notices the bridge or extends their walk outside the front yard of Agía Photiní, regularly busy with weddings and christenings due to its scenic setting and comfortable whereabouts.

The Agía Photiní Park, even though included in the zoning of the archaeological site of Olympieion in 1956 (Hellenic Republic 1956), was fenced out and it is inaccessible to the visitors of the archaeological site. Thus the Park, the last surviving valley of Ilissós and the space under the bridge remains open for unconventional uses; As Gabriel, a 49-year-old decorator, comments: “…It is part of the area of Santa Phophó, as we call it, you know Agía Photiní? You can meet up and go for a quickie. Or watch others making out, you know what I mean? Or have sex with random guys there”. In fact, a

3 The underground channeling of Ilissós commenced in 1930’s due to the floods causing damage at the surroundings and was concluded in the 1960’s as the river was further degraded and polluted by sewage waste and garbage. It coincided with the massive introduction of cars in Athens. The “Anti- Flooding and Drainage Programme of Athens” was funded through the Marshall Plan provided to after WWII, in order to turn the rivers of the capital into streets (Vasilíssis Sofías Avenue, Vasiléos Konstantínou Avenue, Ardittoú Street et al.) (Kitsos 2004). The underground channeling of Ilissós in this area and the construction of Ardittoú Street on top, formed a submerged park around Agía Photiní, the last surviving valley of the river. 6 few days before the cleaning activity, discussed below, Michael (40, Environmentalist) visited the site with Maria (40, Environmentalist) to assess the situation, however: “When we reached the bridge, coming down from Athanasíou Diákou Street, Maria saw someone inside, lifting and buckling up his trousers and she said: ‘Someone is living here!’ After a while, a decent looking gentleman -with his nice belt, shoes and all- came out from under the bridge and walked towards us. He said something in passing, but we didn’t get it. Behind him, after a while, came a junkie, staggering … as completely lost”.

5. The cleaning activity and methodological concerns (1) In September 2010, after a call by the Initiative of the Inhabitants of Mets4, a number of NGOs, other initiatives and the Municipality of Athens participated in a cleaning activity, aiming to collect the litter from Agía Photiní Park and prune trees and bushes.

4 Mets is a neighborhood of Athens between Ardittós Hill and the First Cemetery of Athens. The Initiative of the Citizens of Mets, one of the few that has sprung up in the last decade in Athens, has been active for the protection of the remnants of the temple of Agrotera Artemis in the area. The description of the cleaning activity is accessible at: http://www.artemisagrotera.org/default.asp?id=174 7

Colleagues from MONUMENTA56 and myself responded to the call, co-organising the activity and helping out in the cleaning operation. magazine "A team of archaeologists, architects from Greece and Cyprus involved directly or not with the natural, architectural, and cultural heritage, join their forces and create a non profit civil company and edit an e-magazine, which aims at the awareness, protection, proper management and enhancement of the natural and architectural heritage of Greece and Cyprus. The Company was created in 2006. The magazine’s vision, goals, characteristics, identity, topics, name, layout and so on were gradually established to form what was launched on Friday 2nd of March 2007.The company currently coordinated by four members partners (Irini Gratsia / archeologist-coordinator, Stelios Lekakis / archaeologist, Elias Mavroeidis / chemical engineer, Katerina Chatzikonstantinou / architect), who meet periodically and decide on policy and actions." Formatted: Font: (Default) +Headings (Calibri), 11 pt, Font color: Accent 1 In the last decade, clean-the-city projects have taken Athens by storm, organized by Formatted: English (United States) various initiatives and citizen movements in an attempt to better the living conditions of the capital. Even though this is not per se a problematic issue, the absence of any justification or indeed the narrative that “this is only what it seems and there is not any political overlay” (Atenistas 2018) has attracted criticism (Derveniotis 2011), as cleaning projects cover up, willingly or not, the true problems of Athens, in favour of an elitist presentation and consumption of the city, bordering with what we could call bottom up, gentrification-in-action mode towards the reconstitution of a space in an hypothetical -but always tidy-, original form (Lekakis 2013b). It has also been noted that similar activities might cover up ethnic cleansing attempts, as experienced in some neighbourhoods of Athens (Ágios Panteleímonas in 2009-2014), in what is known as “the ugly underbelly of urban renewal projects” (Karyotis 2017, 86).

Taking all these into account, this paper is an attempt to act reflexively (Hodder 2000), assessing my participation in the scheme, commenting on the processes followed, along with some thoughts on the findings recovered and the space itself. It could be comfortably placed among other archaeologies of the recent past; a developing, hybrid academic field (González-Ruibal 2008, 247; Graves-Brown et al. 2013; Harrison & Schofield 2010, Buchli and Lucas 2001; Schiffer 1991), employing archaeological, anthropological and tools from other disciplines to understand and interpret contemporary material culture, uses, distributions and people behind them. It is also politically enabled, challenging overarching truths with an activist and “translational” viewpoint for the public good and mostly for the hidden communities living in precarious conditions in the city (Zimmerman et al 2010).

Going back to the cleaning activity, around eighty people participated in the event, spread out in the park, collecting litter and dead branches, while the municipality workers pruned trees and bushes (Figure 02). The crowd, all wearing orange gardening gloves provided by a local shop, consisted of Mets residents and members of the NGOs that designed and co-hosted the event. MONUMENTA participants started from the area close to the second entrance of the site by Ardittou Street. Being completely unaware of the existence of the bridge before, it took me a while to spot it and move

8 closer, following colleagues from other initiatives that had already started working there (Figure 04). Two metal screens, probably put up by the Directorate of Greenery and Environment of the City of Athens, were blocking the entrance (northern façade) to the two side arches of the bridge. The screen of the central arch had been torn down, allowing access to an unpleasant -due to the damp, the wet floor, the smells and the mosquitoes- but spacious shelter. The other end (southern) of the arches had been blocked during the encasement of the river. However, the blocking stonewall was built a few meters south of bridge’s southern façade, allowing movement along the arches on that side.

The first thing I noticed, walking towards the central arch, were the graffiti ‘in Arabic’ -as we first thought- occupying significant space on both of its curving walls. On the day of the cleaning activity, a lot of ‘garbage’ had been piled up near the entrance. Indeed, most of the findings depicted in Figure 06 were already removed from their original place, when I reached the central arch. Colleagues Philipp claimed that they were dirty and generally in a bad state, possibly “rummaged by individuals” and qualifying as “deposited litter” to be removed (Philipp, 55, architect). My archaeological training kicked in and I decided to photograph characteristic objects from the piles with a makeshift scale, employing the forensic aspects of archaeological practice (Table 01)7. Their approximate location was also recorded based on the indications of the colleagues that were cleaning the site. In general, the debris, the material spread on the surface, appeared significantly inclined from the southern side to the entrance (northern) side of the arches, resembling the general pattern of inhabited cave sites (Karkanas 2010, 219-226), with most material deposited ‘inside’, meaning on the southern end. With their exact location unknown, the objects recovered are treated separately -in the following section- to the graffiti on the walls of the arch, apart from the carpets leaning against the eastern wall of the central arch that I recorded in situ. As mentioned, all material collected were considered as litter and deposited by the municipality workers in bin bags, after the end of the cleaning activity.

5 MONUMENTA is a civil, non-profit organisation invested in the protection of natural and architectural Formatted: Font: (Default) Calibri, 10 pt heritage of Greece and Cyprus. It was established in 2006 to contribute to the protection and Formatted: Font: (Default) Calibri, 10 pt sustainable management of the natural and architectural heritage of Greece and Cyprus. MONUMENTA publishes annually the electronic magazine MOnuMENTA (www.monumenta.org/) and relevant Formatted: Font: (Default) Calibri studies, raises awareness informing the public and students, intervenes for the rescue of monuments Formatted: Font: (Default) Calibri, 10 pt in danger, organizes relevant events etc. MONUMENTA is currently working on two main projects: a. The documentation and enhancement of the 19th and 20th century buildings in Athens project (http://docathens.org/) and b. The local communities & monuments programme (http://tkm.monumenta.org). Formatted: Font: (Default) Calibri, 10 pt

6 MONUMENTA is a Civil, Non-Profit Organisation for the Protection of Natural and Architectural Heritage in Greece and Cyprus. See: http://www.monumenta.org/index.php 7 As mentioned, contrary to the appropriate archaeological survey methodologies and relevant sampling processes (see e.g. Bevan & Conolly 2012), in our ad hoc case study only characteristic objects were collected, recorded and photographed. This sample is presented in Table 01. Also some of the objects are depicted in Fig. 06. The black disc in the photos, a lens cap of diameter 6 cm, played the role of a makeshift scale. 9

The graffiti were also hastily and partially photographed and the photographs remained for a few years in my hard drive. In 2015, after a discussion with a Syrian colleague at Newcastle University, I got the first definite evidence on the meaning of some words and their significance and decided to go back for a proper documentation of the graffiti. Five years laterIn this second visit in 2015Five years after the cleaning activity, the site was relatively free of litter and there were no evidence of any systematic use of the bridge, apart from the occasional condom wrappers observed inside the arches and the surrounding area. The graffiti of the central arch, however, were painted over by modern tags (see below, Layer 5). The remaining graffiti had significantly faded due to their exposure to the wet conditions under the bridge, extenuated by the automatic watering system installed for the feeble trees on the level of the modern street that causes water to trickle down the arches of the bridge.

In this second visit in 2015, I met Mario (45, public servant), who was taking photographs of the rocks and the trees in the park, around Agía Photiní, overly interested in the supposed energies emanating from the site. “I visited last week for a baptism at the church and I felt it, the energy of the place…I went on to read a few things about it. It is supposed to be one of the old fairy places (neraidótopos) of Athens. You can see it on the rocks and the twisted trunks of the trees. But it is a positive energy, because there are places with negative energy or even dipoles. Animals in places like this are not afraid, look at these pigeons, they won’t fly away when we get close to them”.

Even though the pigeons of the story did not comply with Mario’s interpretation of the site, magical reputation of areas seems to be appealing to closed groups of people, identifying themselves as “urban shamans/magicians”, who -discreetly- visit “charged” sites in Athens -apparently a significant metaphysical centre in the world- to experience and engage in “urban magic”, “measure positive and negative energies” with specialised instruments, check for “gates” and in general perform mystical activities, as a brief online search can reveal, without though too many details for the uninitiated. These energy loci, part of a wider network in the city, seem to coincide with historic sites and buildings that have invested spiritual affinities -commonly documented in relevant publications and online blogposts (Zisis 2017)- as those that Mario was commenting upon, when chatting about the Agía Photiní Park.

The findings • Material culture The vast majority of the objects retrieved on the day of the cleaning activity, relate to food preparation and consumption: food cans, plastic water bottles, a coffee kettle, plates, alcohol bottles and other food packaging dominated the piles. Sleeping equipment was observed and consisted of a tent, a sleeping bag and a mattress, indicating returning use of the site. Also, sheets were found cached in two suitcases in the southern side of the central arch, along with pieces of clothing. Near the suitcases a Greek ID card, a German health card and a credit card were found. This led

10 me initially and falsely to believe that these objects were part of a loot, hauled under the bridge to be redistributed amongst the members of a gang (Lekakis 2010)8.

Cast-off shoes and clothing were also observed along with every-day use and personal items, as: batteries, bulbs, cards, CDs, a bicycle frame, a shopping cart, crates, tools, razor blades, a pencil, backgammon pieces, toys, a pair of (broken) glasses, a brooch, tobacco and smoking paraphernalia. Also, two radios were spotted, an old television and one CD player, all most in bad condition. Paraphernalia for drag use were not observed.

Reading material was scarce, consisting of a Bulgarian Bible and a Greek-Bulgarian lexicon. Of interest and relevance was a wooden panel propped up against the metal screen of the eastern arch, with writings on, discussed in the next section.

Finally, pieces of glazed pottery were spotted. Among all these innumerable wrappers of condoms were scattered about, confirming the cruising-for-sex use of the area, as described above (Figure 05).

• Interpreting the material culture (2) Attempting an interpretation of that kind of material culture and its distribution, one stumbles upon ‘homeless anthropology’, an upcoming research theme, discussed in various publications from 1990s onwards, discussing camps under highway overpasses in Los Angeles (Underwood 1993), researching and actually living the tunnel life under Riverside Park, Manhattan (Voeten 2010), or offering somehow sensational and aestheticized reviews (Toth 1995). In the last decade, archaeological tools have been actively employed in homeless anthropology, in a participatory and/or therapeutic mode (Kiddey 2017), as observed, for example in Zimmerman & Welch 2011: examining the material culture of homeless people in Indianapolis, in Kiddey & Schofield 2011 and the mapping of the daily routines of homeless people in Bristol or in a collaborative excavation at Turbo Island, Stokes Croft in Bristol (Crea et al. 2014). This practice can be related with recent attempts to document material stories of temporary residence, pertaining to undocumented migrants crossing the Mexico-USA borders (De León 2012, 2015; Gokee & De León 2014), the Mediterranean (various contributions in Hamilakis 2017) and other borderlines, recording and discussing abandoned material, makeshift camps en route and testimonies of people on the move.

Among other inventories and typologies, a more systematic take on graffiti, as a telling remain of processes of self-affirmation and space claiming, like the above, can also be spotted in bibliography about contemporary archaeology (e.g. Chmielewska 2007; Frederick 2009). Soto 2017, for example, records and inventories frequently

8 The ID card was immediately handed over to the police by a colleague participating in the activity and it was returned to the man that had dropped it in Pangráti, a neighborhood adjacent to the bridge, as he was getting out of a taxi. 11 overlapping graffiti inscribed in rural highway box culverts by undocumented migrants on their clandestine foot way from Mexico into Arizona. In Greece, especially during the latter years of economic recess, a significant interest on ‘graffiti studies’ can also be recorded, focusing on the messages taken on, aesthetics and the ethics of preservation through social, anthropological, art and linguistic viewpoints (see e.g. various discussions in Tziovas 2018; Leontis 2016; Chatzidakis 2016; Boletsi 2016) in such intensity that has recently contributed in the launching of a new project by the Greek Ministry of Culture in collaboration the Department of Conservation of Antiquities and Works of Art (Technological Educational Institute of Athens) that goes under the title ‘’Θink – Graffiti: ancient and new traces in the city” (MoC 2019).

Looking at our finds, through this prism, our site under the bridge easily qualifies as a semi-permanent ‘camp site’ for homeless people (Zimmerman et al. 2010, 447-8), bearing evidence of relatively intensive for a period of time. Sites like that are located under bridges (Zimmerman & Welch 2011, 75) and are used for dwelling, cooking and temporary storage of material. What is more, unattended historic sites can also provide asylum to homeless people for rough sleeping, drinking and prostitution (e.g. Kiddey & Schofield 2011, 11).

However, the graffiti on the walls of the arches of Anapáfseos Street Bridge allowed us to re-interpret the material culture encountered and propose an additional and/or an alternative use of the space under the bridge.

• The graffiti • However, the graffiti on the walls of the arches of Anapáfseos Street Bridge Formatted: Font: +Headings (Calibri) allowed us to re-interpret the material culture encountered and propose an Formatted: List Paragraph, Bulleted + Level: 1 + additional and/or an alternative use of the space under the bridge. Aligned at: 0.63 cm + Indent at: 1.27 cm • Formatted: List Paragraph, Bulleted + Level: 1 + As mentioned, the interior of the arches were photographed in 2010 and revisited in Aligned at: 0.63 cm + Indent at: 1.27 cm, Pattern: Clear 2015 to find most of the graffiti faded or destroyedcovered. For a more coherent and meaningful approach the graffiti are grouped together in layers, taking into consideration their context and medium of execution (paint)9. The majority of the graffiti are unconnected words together with a few sketches and doodles. Macroscopically, five layers of graffiti could be recognized: Layer 2 (off-white paint) stands out, executed by a steady and skilful hand, consisting mainly of large lettered inscriptions on both sides of the central arch. In the same layer, I have included the large lettered inscriptions with red paint and the sketches on the western wall of the eastern arch. Layer 3 is made with various paints (red, blue, black, green and white)

9 In Table 021 the graffiti are transcribed (for convenience in ) and their position is documented. Due to the congestion of graffiti on the central arch, their position is documented by dividing the bridge horizontally in two sections (upper/lower side) and vertically in three -roughly symmetrical- sections, following their placement and their contemporaneity of execution, when it was possible to discern. Their study, presentation and interpretation follows the typical right to left script of Arabic and ; in our case it also follows a South to North rule, from the interior to the exterior of the arches. 12 and consists of small lettered words, phrases and doodles freely written or filling the gaps of Layer 2. Layer 2 and Layer 3 consist mainly of Kurdish and Arabic words. The words, the space between the words, their outlines or the outlines of the slabs of the bridge walls are commonly filled or highlighted with well-arranged, multi-coloured dots; this layer (Layer 4) can be considered as a decorative, artistic endeavour extending further, outside the bridge on the rocks in the Agía Photiní Park. These three layers seem contemporary and sit on an older spray-painted layer (black, red, white) (Layer 1) that can be spotted sporadically at the external cement walls of the encasement of the bridge and the interior space, consisting of random tags, acronyms and a sex-referring graffiti in Greek. As mentioned above, modern (post 2013) graffiti- tags have been painted on the central arch walls (Layer 5), covering most of the Kurdish-Arabic graffiti10.

• Interpreting the graffiti Graffiti making, is a complex and conspicuous social phenomenon, a mark-making practice, incorporating painting/drawing and writing. Main aim is to leave a public text on a surface for the passerby, open a visual dialogue between interested parties over social, existential or aesthetic issues, but also “gesture to ownership, occupation and … arrival” (Frederick 2009, 213; Klingman & Shalev 2001, 405). Graffiti also qualifies as a legitimate field of archaeological scholarship (Frederic 2009, 213-5).

Based on Zaimakis’ (2015) argument, three methodological axes are employed in graffiti decoding (semiotics, context and community). In our case, we focus on the semiotics of linguistic and iconographic dimensions of the graffiti, with its conventions and rules, its ‘visual parole’ that might refer to a language or a discourse (Chmielewska 2007, 149). The political graffiti, especially, reveals local aesthetics and rhetorics, presented in the context of a city and its cultural environment, through which it should be read and interpreted (Pettet 1996; Dragićević-Śešić 2001; Chmielewska 2007, 163). Focus on this axis allows us to approach and re-interpret the second, the immediate spatial context, the arches of the bridge and Agía Photiní Park, which is the focus of this study and the socio-cultural dimensions, within which the graffiti is embedded and which dictated its inscription. Finally, this process allows us to form a basis and discuss scenarios for the communities of the people related to the graffiti, either as authors or onlookers, the third axis. However, the latter remains a hypothesis as a full cultural immersion in an unfamiliar set of values and with the community responsible absent, is impossible.

Going back to the graffiti on the bridge, Layers 2 and 3 are mostly written in Arabic and the Central Kurdish dialect group - in Arabic script, relating to the of and the Province. These include political commentary, place names, personal names and random words. The Patriotic Union of Kurdistan (PUK), a Kurdish political party in , is emphatically mentioned on the eastern,

10 It should be noted that due weathering c.20 words, mainly from Layers 2 & 3, have become unintelligible. 13 encasement wall. It is mentioned again on the eastern wall of the central arch, along with the name of the socialist politician Jalal Talabani (mentioned trice in Layers 2 and 3), founder and secretary general of the PUK. Talabani (1933-2017) is claimed to be the first non-Arab President of Iraq (2016-2014), however Abd-al-Karim Qasim (1914- 1963), the 24th Prime Minister of Iraq (1958-1963), his name also mentioned in Layer 3, was of partial Kurdish origin (McDowall 2003). The PUK was formed in 1975, after the defeat of the Kurds in the Second Iraqi-Kurdish War, breaking away from the Kurdish Democratic Party (KDP) dominated by Mustafa Barzani and his traditionalist- conservative tribal support base. Mustafa Barzani (1903-1979), a prominent figure in the Kurdish national history is mentioned trice in Layers 2 & 3. On the western wall of the central arch (Layer 2), Barzani’s name can be associated with names of cities (Sulaymaniyah, Moscow, Kuwait, Iraq, Bagdad) related to his political career. Mustafa Barzani was succeeded by his son Masoud in the leadership of the KDP. He had been a long-term president of Iraqi Kurdistan (2005-2017), a post that sparked controversy, possibly reflected on the derogatory comment on the western wall of the eastern arch. The PUK and KDP have a long history of opposition and collaboration, however the official opposition to their current, ruling coalition comes from the Gorran Movement (Layer 3), founded in 2009 by former PUK & KDP members, academics and members of the Kurdish military forces in Iraqi Kurdistan, known as Peshmerga (Layer 3).

Apart from the political commentary, Layer 2 also features a number of cities in Iraqi Kurdistan (Kirkuk, Khanaqin, Jalawla, Baqubah, Dihok, Sulaymaniyah) all written with the same calligraphic intention, even though sometimes misspelled.

Layer 2 seems to be executed by one individual, a ‘tableau of love’ (central arch, western wall) by a ‘calligrapher’ (Layer 3 but with the same off-white paint). To him/her we should attribute the human outline sketch and the attempt for a portrait, on the western wall of the eastern arch (Layer 2). On the other hand, Layer 3 -generally compiled of several, irregular, micro layers- contains solely random words (mainly names, c.25) and doodles, and can be considered as a layer of experimentation and self-expression by more than one individuals. As noted, the majority of the graffiti are embellished by the same intricate point-pattern of Layer 4.

Religious graffiti appears sporadically citing mainly the word ‘Quran’ and ‘Allah’ in Layers 2 & 3. Of interest is the word ‘Tangra’ and the relevant symbol-token of ‘Tengrism’, an animistic religion from central Asia, appearing on the eastern wall of the central arch (Figure 06). Even though painted with the familiar off-white paint of Layer 2, its irregular execution points to another individual, certainly other than our ‘calligrapher’. The word ‘Tangra’ is mentioned again on the wooden panel spotted a few meters outside the central arch of the bridge, also quoting: ‘Bulgaria’, ‘IYI’ (the Tengra symbol), ‘Tangra’ (in Bulgarian and Greek script), a cross (fourchée type), ‘Greece’ (in Greek) and ‘I love Greece’ (in English) along with the Greek flag and the flag of the European Union. These could be related with the Bulgarian Bible and a part of a Greco-Bulgarian lexicon retrieved from inside the central arch of the bridge, but no clear connection is possible at this point.

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On the same wall, below ‘Tangra’, an elaborate sketch catches the eye. This highly ,Greece in Arabic, possibly designed to resemble a skyline ,اليونان stylized graffiti reads including the minaret of a mosque; an interesting point, if related to two ordinary carpets that were found in situ, propped up against this wall, as we will examine below (Figure 04).

People inside in-between spaces places – the Ilissós people The area of Ilissós, we are examining, has been gradually shaped by the strong pressures of the expanding and/or gentrified city, pushing irregular activities and people to sequestered sites, as the review of the data collected and the finds under the Anapáfseos Bridge attest.

The cruising- for- sex activity in the Park and the bridge is a reference to the practices known in this area since the 19th c. onwards (i.e. the Pantremenádika sheds, the music clubs and the resonant reputation later). Also nowadays, new- age enthusiasts seek to locate flows of energy, remains of the magical past of Ilissós, encouraged by relevant, popular publications and internet resources (for example, Zisis 2017); Indeed magical reputation …

However, apart from the recurring uses of the site, of particular significance is the documentation of the camp site for a community of -probably undocumented- migrants of Kurdish origins. Numbers of people cannot be easily defined nor how long they used the bridge as a shelter, but the volume of the material collected in the cleaning activity and the graffiti could point to a residence/use of the site by a few people for several months, sometime in the years 2005-2009.

Even though mass migration in Greece is not a recent phenomenon (Kourelis 2017, 216), there has been a significant shift in the movement of people since the 1990s, when migrants from the Middle East, SE Asia, North, East and West Africa escaping oppression, conflict or poverty zones, reached the country. Hostilities between the Iraqi governments and the Kurds, since Barzani’s days and later during Sadam Hussein’s Arabization policy, were further aggravated after the US invasion of Iraq in 2003 and the sectarian violence that followed (McDowall 2003). These processes drove a number of Iraqi and Syrian people out of their homeland. Nowadays, low and high intensity warfare instigates periodic refugee flows from Kurdistan that use Greece as a stepping-stone to the rest of Europe. However, only crude estimations can be made for the number of Kurds in Greece, as the Iraqi community was estimated in 2003 from 5.000 – 40.000 people (Wench 2004, 12).

Immigrants that finally manage to settle in Athens usually live in working class districts or in areas abandoned by that moved to the suburbs. According to recent studies, the city-centre of Athens is a multi-ethnic landscape, absent of ghettoized immigrant population, although hierarchically differentiated for reasons exceeding ethnic identity. Indeed, different immigrant groups live within overlapping areas, without conspicuous spatial boundaries or overt competition for dominance (Kandylis et al. 2012, 274; Noussia & Lyons 2009, 620).

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These public and private spaces of Athens are populated by immigrants that inscribe new social meanings through their activities (Lefebvre 1991: 191). In fact, urban space could be perceived as a constantly negotiated reality that involves symbolic and material expression of local and translocal connections that mobile communities create and use to engage with host society (Ehrkamp 2005, 349). Things and memories are brought in to formulate new homes in foreign landscapes (Bender 2001: 80, 82). In this process, places of familiarity and acquaintance are established, be them inside a religious or a public place of social interaction (Ehrkamp 2005; Kalandides & Vaiou 2012). For the newcomers, these places feel as liminal, in-between spacesplaces, relevant to the temporary and transitory character of their experiences of the host city and their memories and also are places of consolation, support and reassurance (Shields 1991: 83). As it has been observed in Athens, these are places to return, meet and socialize with friends, speak your native language, pray, liaise for work, affirm on a whole and re-enforce the feeling of belonging (Noussia & Lyons 2009: 611-614).

In that sense the in-between character of the arches Anapáfseos Bridge, a degraded, tucked away urban monument, was enriched in an unexpected way: A liminal and negative space was inscribed with memories of the Kurdish homeland (names of cities and landscape features), political associations (names of leaders and political parties) and personal connotations (personal names, portrait) and transformed into a meaningful place. If Anapáfseos Street Bridge arches reflect this peaceful coexistence between two ethnic groups, of Kurdish and Bulgarian origins, is difficult to decide.

The skyline/mosque graffiti onto the eastern wall of the central arch might also point to a religious appropriation of the site, combined with the carpets leaning against the wall. Although it seems implausible that a site like this would ensure the levels of cleanliness required in Muslim places of prayer, it is sensible to remember that Athens is the only major European Union capital lacking an official, state- supported mosque11, even though legal arrangements exist since 2000s, and Law 3512/2006 provides for the building of the mosque in Elaionas area (Hatziprokopiou & Evergeti 2014: 603). In its absence, informal mosques have been established in rented flats in the centre of Athens, sometimes registered as community centres (Noussia & Lyons 2009, 616-618). Contrary to their mundane exteriors –to avoid attention- the interiors of these spaces are well-organized and eloquently decorated for the intended use (Hatziprokopiou & Evergeti 2014, 611-612); another argument against the use of our site as a place for prayer.

However, the wider area is indicated in passing as a “prayer site of foreigners” in the unofficial blog of the church of Agía Photiní (2018). Also, could the ‘Tangra’ graffiti on the same wall point to a ‘sacred/praying spot’ under the bridge. Again, difficult to affirm.

Inconclusive as the latter discussion might be, the space under the bridge points to a meaningful appropriation of a negativen, in-between site and its investment with aspects from the past and /present of the immigrant community (Guarnizo & Smith

11 At least, at the time of writing this paper. Formatted: English (United Kingdom) 16

1998; Vertovec 1999), pushed away from the city normality along with parasitic activities.

Indeed, irrelevant to the possible religious affinities of the skyline/mosque graffiti, it can be argued that the image illustrates yet another vital point in our discussion: the attempt of a community of individuals to recreate a familiar landscape feature, taken from them but still vividly remembered, on the very surface of the space they were temporarily dwelling. This investment, apart from a profound act of nostalgia, might consist of an active gesture of assimilating the remembered and cherished with the pressingly real, new dwellings. The fact that the graffiti reads “Greece” probably evokes a longing, a heart-felt wish for the new home to be as familiar and welcoming as the one left behind. The same feelings might be actually discerned in the “I love Greece” graffiti on the wooden panel, retrieved from the eastern arch of the bridge. mosque graffiti …

With these comments I am turning to the final part of this paper.

Places of exclusion, emancipation or heritage? This piece reconsiders some of the ideas expressed in one of my a early interpretative attemptsblog-post, a few weeks after the cleaning event at the Agía Photiní Park, in the centre of Athens (Lekakis 2010). As expected, it leaves us with some questions, pertaining to the identity of the users of Ilissós’ bridge, the national diversity of the groups, their status (homeless, undocumented migrants etc.), the timespan of their stay and the synchronicity and interaction with the surrounding cruising-for-sex and new-age activities that the area is known of.

However, through our study we can confirm that a neglected, non-proper space was converted into a place through graffiti, painted to produce “memory shocks” (Stavrides 2016, 183) to the initiated community that used the site, possibly offering a space place for contemplation and social interaction, apart from a shelter. Words and texts evoke a sociality lost along with the place of origin and personal relations but also claim a right to the city: a gesture of collective self-determination inscribed on a monument of the host city. In that sense, the neglected in-between space is transformed from a bleak, stagnant dead-end to a vibrant symbolic stairway between homeland and host society, past and longing future, ethnicity and assimilation12.

In this way, the appropriated space, holding symbolic and physical material from the homeland and the host country, attains to an alternative potential of the in-between space: brewing a claim to a role in the city, transgressive of the boundaries; a hidden act of citizenship (De Certeau 1988, 127-129). In our case, if the unction received exiting this place is fit for a useful and productive citizenship, is a matter of further discussion, as it seems that in-between places are the real measure of our times (Augé 1995, 79; Lefebvre 1991, 416-7).

12 As a parallel, Cresswell (1996, 3-61) discusses the endeavours of a Greek, immigrant graffiti artist in New York in the 1970s. Formatted: Justified 17

In-between spaces places remain vulnerable to the capital and the neoliberal forces that shape the city. Even benign public intervention can reproduce hegemonic socio- spatial power dynamics. A systematic, flexible, politically engaged archaeology allows us to spot, analyse and address inequality, bringing on the forefront hidden communities and their marginal lives, examine their rights to the city and their negation but also discuss issues that lie outside the mainstream discourse, as the archaeologies of the recent past often do (Buchli & Lucas 2001, 25; Kourelis 2016, 224; Reno 2013; Philippides 1974)

However, is the outcome of this type of archaeology, a new type of heritage? What are the implications of turning the spotlight to a memorialisation13 attempt by the disenfranchised? Are we in front of the establishment of a new category of sites in the realm of the abject? (González-Ruibal 2008, 257; Soto 2017, 176). It is maybe too soon to answer these questions. It seems though that meaning does occur in this category of non-places and it is convoluted, amassed in a complex to analyse palimpsest that we need to pay attention to.

Acknowledgements The author wishes to thank Dr Niveen Kassem and Dr Mark Jackson for their comments and support. Dr Rebeen Kareem and colleagues from the North of England Refugee Centre have been of significant help in my attempt to decipher the graffiti on the arches of the Ilissós’ bridge. Extended thanks also goes to the Ιλισ-sos Facebook group from which the historical photos of Ilissós was were harvested and consulted and the architect-urban planner Iossif Efraimidis who initially introduced me to the site. The architects Dr Katerina Chatzikonstantinou and Stavros Apotsos assisted me with the editing of the photos from the bridge. Comments by Prof. Y. Hamilakis on an early draft of the paper were particularly useful along with comments by Dr Joe Skinner on the latest draft of the paper. Finally, I am thankful to to the Special Issue’s Formatted: Font: (Default) Calibri, 12 pt, English editor Prof. D. Plantzos for his suggestion to publish this piece here and his comments (United States) and the two anonymous referees for a number of helpful remarks and suggestions. However, errors and misinterpretations remain with me.

13 The concept of bottom-up memorialisation contrary to the top-down monumentalisation/heritagisation is further explored in Lekakis & Dragouni in press. Formatted: English (United Kingdom) 18