The Scapegoat (29 page)

The novel’s second central narrative, that of high school student Minas Georgiou, takes place in 2010, in the midst of a financial crisis that has also become a deepening social crisis. Social services in Greece—including the public education system—have been gutted in response to conditions set by the European Central Bank and the International Monetary Fund to loans extended to the Greek government. Minas’s reluctance to attend university can more fully be understood in the context of the bleak unemployment rates and sense of hopelessness facing his generation (in 2010, 33 percent of adults under twenty-five were unemployed; that rate has now reached nearly 60 percent). Many of the chapter titles in the book—“Schools Enlighten Only When They Burn,” “Get Your Hands Off Our Brains,” “Mother, There’s a War On Out There. I’ll Be Late”—are taken from graffiti painted on walls in cities all over Greece in recent years. The sit-in at Minas’s school, meanwhile, echoes the wave of student sit-ins prompted by the murder of fifteen-year-old Alexis Grigoropoulos by a
police officer in central Athens in 2008. In the riots that followed Grigoropoulos’s death, Greeks, especially of Minas’s generation, expressed their frustration with the Greek state and the country’s uncertain future.

Perhaps most important are not the details of these historical settings, but the sense of history as a lived present that saturates the novel. In putting the story of Manolis Gris alongside the current crisis in Greece, Nikolaidou implicitly argues that the injustices of the past are still with us, and that scapegoating of all kinds—of political opponents, of immigrants, of the youth who will bear the brunt of the current financial crisis, even of Greece itself within the European Union—pervades the current moment.

Thodoros Papaggelis stood by my side from the first draft of this book to the last. I thank him for the words, the thoughts, and the love he has shown me. Edmund Keeley, Yiorgos Anastasiadis, Grigoris Staktopoulos, Yiorgos Kafiris: their books provided fuel for the writing of mine. Dimitris Tompaidis and Tatiana Halidou supplied me with Pontic words. Most of the graffiti I quote as chapter headings comes from buildings along Agios Dimitrios Street, Armenopoulou Street, on the campus of the Aristotle University of Thessaloniki, on Agia Sophia Street, and on Theogenous Harisi Street. And my students—from the Korais School, the middle and high schools in Kato Poria, the middle schools in Provata, Skouratea, the Pallatidio middle school of Siderokastro, the Music School of Thessaloniki, the Experimental School of the University of Thessaloniki—taught me so much. I thank them all from the bottom of my heart. Eleni Boura is my editor, which is to say my person. I bow before her professional passion.

Sakis Seferas makes my life easier and more fun. Thus, I can write.

A novel like this one, which involves extensive research on the part of the author, involves just as much on the part of the translator. I thank Sophia Nikolaidou, then, first of all, for giving me cause to delve into moments in Greek history that had been obscure to me—and to revisit the streets and alleyways of Thessaloniki, a city dear to me. I thank her, too, for her generous reading of this translation.

I would also like to thank Evi Haggipavlu for first handing this novel to me so excitedly, for carefully reading over my finished translation, and for the many, many conversations about pedagogy and politics in between; Panayiotis Pantzarelas and Andreas Galanos for always being willing to join an impromptu book club; Dimitris Kousouris for his help with historical details; Amanda
Doxtater, Lanie Millar, and Marc Schachter for their truly amazing edits on parts of the book, and for the community of thinkers they have been for me over the past few years; and, as always, David and Helen Emmerich, the most dedicated of editors, whose generosity as parents goes beyond what any child could ever hope for.