A line of Spartan warriors, clad in bronze armor and red cloaks, marches with stern expressions under falling snow. Their distinctive helmets gleam as they approach the battlefield. Photo: Vecteezy
The past came calling
Fifteen years ago, on May 17, 2010, I signed my name to a cause that set my heart ablaze: the «Minisi Kata tou Kratous» (Lawsuit Against the State), led by the fierce Dr. Dimitris Antoniou. Today, a Gmail recovery notice for an old email—minisi.kata@gmail.com—brought it all flooding back—and crashed into me like a tidal wave in a mad, mad sea. That email, created to support a movement, now feels like a time capsule, carrying the weight of those fiery, hopeful, and heartbreaking years. As I sit with this memory, I’m filled with both pride and a quiet sadness for what we fought for and what we endured. Far from Greece, that email stirred memories of a fight that shaped me, friends I long for, and a home I ache for. The pride of those days is tangled with a deep sadness, and I need to share this with you.
It all started when my friend Takis Mak (code name Monahikos Legeonarios or Solitary Legionnaire) saw something I posted on facebook and called me to ask «Have you heard about the doctor from Chalkida?» But let me take you back to those days:
In 2010, Greece was on its knees. The government, led by George Papandreou, signed a €110 billion bailout with the International Monetary Fund (IMF) and the European Union on May 2, 2010, to avert default. The IMF contributed €30 billion, while the EU provided €80 billion in loans. The price? Crippling austerity that crushed us—spending cuts, tax hikes, and reforms that promised to shrink our deficit from 15.4% of GDP in 2009 to under 3% by 2014. But the cost was human: our economy shrank by 10.1% in 2010, and unemployment soared, peaking at 25.7% by 2012. The Greece I knew was unraveling, and I couldn’t just watch. Greece was gasping, and I couldn’t stand idle.
My friend Takis, still a dear friend today, told me about Dr. Antoniou, a lawyer from Chalkida who believed the bailout betrayed our constitution and sovereignty. His lawsuit was a spark, and I fanned it. I created a Facebook page, «Minisi Kata tou Kratous», and the minisi.kata@gmail.com email to amplify his voice. On that page and my personal facebook profile, I shared information about his lectures, promoted his talks, and rallied support. Dr. Antoniou called me his «first fan», a «wave of support out of nowhere» that gave him such hope and inspiration. Those words still warm my heart, even as they sting with nostalgia—because after the 2012 elections, we drifted apart, estranged, and sadly remain so.
That was the start of my activist years. The Facebook page buzzed with energy—comments, shares, and debates—until, predictably, Facebook took it down—silenced, like so many voices. Censorship stung, but it didn’t stop us. The lawsuit, though shelved, now a distant memory, gave me something priceless: like-minded friends who believed in our cause. I long for those connections, those late-night talks, that shared fire. By 2018, Greece had taken €289 billion in loans, with €32 billion from the IMF, repaid early in 2022 to save €230 million in interest. But the scars of austerity—lost jobs, homes, dreams—still mark us and linger in our communities, our families, our dreams.
The doctor and I joined the political party Independent Greeks (ANEL), founded by Panos Kammenos in 2012, to fight austerity politically. In the chaotic May and June 2012 elections, we ran as parliamentary candidates, I in the Piraeus A’ District he in his hometown. ANEL scored a 10.6% in May, then a 7.5% in June, winning parliament seats and shaking the system. Though neither of us became MPs, standing for what we believed in felt like a victory. Those years were a whirlwind of hope, frustration, and camaraderie—we stood tall. After the elections, the distance between Dr. Antoniou and me grew for reasons that are too silly to talk about, a quiet loss amid the noise of those years. I later run again, once for the municipal race in my district, twice more for Greek parliament and twice for EU parliament, a battle that keeps going since then, though it’s an extremely expensive feat.
So far from home
«Minisi Kata tou Kratous» (Lawsuit Against the State), facebook profile picture. Getty images
Now as I make my way in Miami, Florida, far from my native home and my friends, I still fight—for justice, for Greece and my naturalized home, the USA, and for what’s right in this world. But these memories hit like waves in a stormy sea. I miss my friends from those days, the ones who stood shoulder-to-shoulder with me in those protests and action filled rallies and «political events». I miss my life of purposeful activism, its light, its spirit. I miss our cause, that raw belief that we could change things. The Gmail notice, a ghost from 2010, asking if I’ll keep or lose that email brought it all back so vividly. It’s more than an account—it’s a piece of who I was, who we were and now and how far we’ve come.
Today, that Gmail notice hit me hard. It’s been 15 years since I typed «minisi.kata» into an email field, full of purpose and hope. The sadness creeps in when I think of the Greece we lost—the jobs, the homes, the optimism. I wonder where my friends are now, what Takis would say about it all. The email feels like a ghost, whispering memories of protests, late-night talks, and a country fighting to breathe. Should I reactivate it, hold onto that piece of 2010? Or let it go, like so much else from those years?
My friend Takis, my rock, is still by my side, and I’m grateful for him. So are others, still connected in that heartfelt way that people do when they «ate bread and butter together». But others, scattered or silent, and the cause, faded like the lawsuit, leave an ache. I’m proud of what we did. We spoke up when silence would’ve been easier.
Fifteen years on, I’m proud we fought, but the weight of what’s lost—friends, home, that Greece of 2010—drowns me in so many ways. Greece is still healing, friendships faded, and the memories of a younger me, full of fire—sits heavy in my heart today.
Epilogue: Healing Through the Fire of Activism
As I sit far from Greece’s sunlit shores, the Gmail notice for minisi.kata@gmail.com tied to a lawsuit now faded, pulls me back to 2010, when activism was my lifeline. As a healer, I’ve learned that activism doesn’t just fight for change; it mends broken spirits, reshapes society, and gives life a meaning that carries me, even here.
Healing is about mending what’s torn—within us and around us. In 2010, Greece was shattered, but our activist voices were acts of defiance and healing. Every post I shared, every lecture I publicized, was a stitch in a wound, turning helplessness into hope. Activism knits people together, forging bonds that transcend distance and time. Those joint fights with friends for our country and our ideals—I now miss. Friends who became family in our shared struggle—woven into a tapestry of resilience. We were strangers turned comrades, despair transformed into defiance. That collective fire didn’t just heal us; it planted seeds for change, seeds that still bloom in me today.
Society heals through activism’s ripples, subtle yet profound. Our lawsuit didn’t halt the bailout, but it sparked conversations that echoed beyond 2010. It challenged power, questioned sovereignty, and showed ordinary people could resist. Each rally, each signature, was a pebble in a pond, rippling outward to inspire others. The «Minisi Kata tou Kratous» cause helped shift Greece’s political landscape, paving the way for anti-austerity movements like ANEL. Even if we didn’t win, our voices reshaped the narrative, proving society can bend toward justice when enough hearts unite. Activism’s legacy isn’t just in laws changed but in minds awakened, communities strengthened, and hope sustained. Those ripples, born in 2010, still touch lives, reminding us that no stand is too small.
As a healer, I drew on activism’s energy to fuel my calling. My work—whether guiding someone through grief with words, easing pain with a spiritual clearing of negative energy, or holding space for their story—mirrors the activist’s mission: to see what’s broken and dare to mend it. In 2010, the lawsuit gave my healing a deeper purpose, rooting it in collective struggle. Organizing rallies felt like leading a meditation, each participant finding solace in shared purpose. Publicizing the doctor’s talks was like offering a remedy, spreading hope to those in despair. That energy carried into my healing practice, where I’d listen to clients’ stories of loss—jobs, homes, dreams—and weave in the resilience I learned from activism.
Even now, abroad, I channel that 2010 fire into my work, fighting for justice through community outreach and holistic care. It’s what keeps me grounded, what makes the ache of distance bearable. The memories of those friends, that cause, that Greece, hit hard—waves in a mad sea—but they fuel my purpose, keeps me tethered, but the other battles, silent or gone, like the lawsuit, leave an ache. Yet activism taught me healing is a journey, not an end. It’s in the fight, the bonds, the meaning we carve from pain. To anyone reading this, your voice can heal you and the world. Keep fighting, keep healing, keep loving. And to my friends from 2010, wherever you are, you’re in my heart, always and forever.
Xenia Ioannidis, Excerpt from my soon to be published autobiography «Stories from my life»
