By Giannis Aggelis

Social worker, Athens Solidarity Center

There are certain points in your career which will be engraved in you, the memory of which will be at your side as much as you might try to distance yourself.

It is a moment like this which I will try to convey to you as concisely as is possible. And I will do it, because stories have the ability to open, in a certain, magical way, a window to the truth, to feelings, to life.

It was December, a few days before the Christmas holidays.

The clock indicated nearly eight in the evening. I found myself at my office, writing yet another social essay. The Solidarity Center had emptied itself of all beneficiaries, and I didn’t intend on staying longer than another hour. Another intense day had come to an end at that point.

My coworker, who was responsible for the cleaning of the Center, had already taken to working when I heard a knock on my office door. A silver-haired man of around eighty years entered, dragging himself towards me. He couldn’t have been over 1,60 meters, with a long, white beard, and along with his weariness, he carried a paper bag on his back and a cardboard box in his hands. His appearance betrayed his life on the streets. Before me stood an elderly man, who introduced himself to me, with impeccable Greek, as a Greek who was born in Russia- and more explicitly, he originated from a place close to Siberia.

He began to tell me the story of his life, which started at the beginning and ended on this day, without my having to pose a single question. I let him. I respected his need to talk, and my role in this was to be there to listen. He told me about his journey from Russia to Greece, which was intertwined with a dream that was constantly rendered futile. He told me about his strained financial situation these past few years, about the serious health problems with his heart, and the sudden estrangement with his son, who no longer wanted him around. He repeated that he considered himself a burden, which had an expiration date. As he recounted all this, his calloused hands oscillated soporifically, like waves before me.

He requested shelter for two, maybe three days. After that, he would be hosted at the homeless shelter in Athens. He told me that he desperately needed my help. He could not withstand another night on the streets. That winter evening was undeniably and truly cold. I told him that our organization does not offer its own accommodation. He begged me.

A certain reflex response immediately kicked in. I set aside my sense of realism, and I poured myself into my work, determined to find a solution for him. I grabbed my planner and proceeded to make several phone calls. I wouldn’t rest until I found something, anything positive or even promising. I contacted everyone, and I refused to stop, despite the overwhelming negative responses. I felt as though I had reached a dead end; I was merely hitting a wall that would not budge, a feeling that was only exacerbated every time I saw the man’s devastated eyes before mine. Suddenly, I remembered. Hoping that this time we would be lucky, I addressed the person on the other end of the line who had finally, willingly agreed to find a place for yet another one of our people, in a heated space for the homeless.

This news was very good. In this bleak atmosphere, I dared to feel a sliver of joy. I was proud to be able to announce to him that which had been agreed upon: that that specific night he would not have to spend on the streets. His eyes brimmed with tears, and he gripped my hand with all his might. The feeling I experienced at that moment warmed me from head to toe like a blanket. I jotted down the address and printed off a map. I was worried he might get lost.

Once he left, I plastered my face on the window. I wanted to see him one last time. As he walked down the sidewalk, he paused to look around him. He looked as though he was genuinely confused. In that moment, watching him like that, I was also stunned. Something very important was missing. Without even thinking about it, I swung open the window and yelled as loud as I could:

“I’m right here!”

He nodded his head enthusiastically in response, and continued his journey, a newfound spring to his step. Everything that could be said between us had been said. I glanced at my watch. It was 9:20. It was time for me to go home.