Dreaming in Democracy

Written by Efthymia Papadopoulou

When a crisis is in full swing, you often feel deeply alone. It’s a paradox—millions of people are affected, and yet you feel like the only one. That was me in 2010 when the global economic downturn sent me on a 2,382km journey from Greece to the Netherlands. From the ancient streets of Thessaloniki to the quiet fields of Friesland, my world was turned upside down.

 

Leaving everything I knew behind was a raw and vulnerable experience. The neighbourhood in which I grew up, the friends who understood me even without words, and the dreams that I had built up—all of this was left behind in Thessaloniki. The safety net of my parents and the bustling Greek streets were replaced by the unknown. It’s hard to dream when the ground beneath your feet is shifting.

 

But how can you live if you are no longer allowed to dream?

 

When I arrived in my new Dutch town, I was full of fear and anxiety. I stepped off the train and saw a picturesque city. It was a complete contrast to the concrete vibrancy of the Greek co-capital. My first goal was simple but challenging: to find my way around, to connect with the people, and the environment and, most importantly, to reconnect with myself.

 

I questioned everything. Who am I without my surroundings? Who am I if no one within a radius of two thousand kilometres knows of my existence? Who am I if no one speaks my language? These thoughts consumed me.

 

‘Fear is natural, but determination is your choice’, I wrote on a post-it and stuck it on my front door. I quickly started learning the local language. Words are the basis of meaningful connections, I thought, and I studied every day, spending my days between books and notes.

 

Isolation became my constant companion, and the dark winter days made it even more unbearable. I kept all the lights on in my small apartment, trying to recreate the warmth of the Greek sun, but it wasn’t enough.

 

One day the solitude became too much. I closed my Dutch grammar books, turned off the lights, and put on my windcheater and waterproof boots. I needed to break free from isolation. I walked aimlessly for an hour in the rain until I found myself in front of the city’s former prison, which looked like a Gothic castle. The portcullis was open and in the courtyard was standing a 20-metre-long ship decorated with countless pictures, children’s drawings and handwritten notes.

 

The ship was a mosaic of personal stories and messages. As I walked around it, reading the little stories, I felt a connection. Each message was a piece of someone’s heart, just like mine.

 

Walking along the back of the ship, I found an opening. A double door opened automatically, and I entered a warm room full of books. The town’s library. The welcoming atmosphere inspired me to walk around and discover the two floors of the library, which is housed in an impressive renovated industrial building.

 

The children’s section on the left was full of colourful books and a special play area with fluffy chairs and a small castle-like slide where two toddlers were enjoying themselves. A little further on, the fiction section was perfectly organised, and a few steps away, a spacious lift invited me to explore the upper level of the library.

 

A group of teenagers was sitting around a table with computers, and all around the spacious room, on wooden shelves, were books of all kinds; maths, geography, tourism, philosophy, history, and other subjects were all available. I grabbed one that caught my eye: a beautifully illustrated book of quotations. I turned the pages with my fingertips until I got to page 17. The quote was: ‘Every man’s memory is his private literature’, Aldous Huxley. I stood still. I could still hear the sound of the rain outside the library, while a sweet smell tickled my nose.

 

The smell of apple tart led me downstairs, using the stairs this time, to a cosy café area. As I sat down in a velvet armchair, I accidentally stumbled over a man’s walking stick.

 

I made a friendly apology and the man replied that I did not need to worry about it. Then he asked me if I liked the artwork on the ship. He told me he was an artist too. A painting teacher, in fact. ‘I’m blind too, but not retired’, he smiled.

 

When the apple tart arrived on the table, the man greeted me, picked up his walking stick and walked carefully towards the exit of the library.

 

His story was an inspiration to me. The apple tart with whipped cream was amazingly tasty, and I was filled with an unexpected amount of sweetness and positivity.

 

My visits to the library became more frequent. It was a place where I could study, practise my Dutch, and interact with the locals, if only with a simple ‘hello’. It became a refuge from isolation and a place of discovery. The library also hosted various events and workshops that were free to the public, and I was more than happy to take part. I began to understand that in order to connect, I first had to understand the traditions and the place I lived in. As time went by, and after my participation in various events organised by the library, my ability to understand the local culture, both verbally and non-verbally, was a far cry from my first days in the city. My network expanded and I met lovely people who worked in the library.

 

I slowly began to build bridges to the ‘other’.

 

One day I met the painting teacher again. He invited me to his upcoming art exhibition and told me about his journey to blindness and how he adapted his work. His story was a reminder to me of the power of personal storytelling.

 

Inspired by the painter and the ship of stories, I imagined a living library—where people are the books, each with a story to tell. I learned that this concept already existed and was a global movement aimed at breaking down barriers and xenophobia.

 

That was it! My mission was now clear. To organise the first Living Library in our city.

 

I followed all the necessary procedures and applied to become the official initiator of Living Libraries in the city. When all the processes were completed, I started looking for a place to hold the event.

 

The library, I thought, and hurried to contact the director. He graciously agreed that it would be the venue for the town’s first Living Library! It felt incredible!

 

The date was fixed and I began an intensive search for participants—living books. The painting teacher gladly accepted my invitation to become a Living Book, and soon news of the event spread throughout the town. The librarians supported me in every aspect of the organisation and local people enthusiastically embraced the event, volunteering to be Living Books or assistants on this special day.

 

Ten Living Books shared their stories and ten volunteers helped to make it happen.

 

That day, the library buzzed with life. Visitors engaged with the Living Books, breaking down barriers and making connections.

 

I suddenly found myself among local and international people thanking me for giving them the chance to have their stories told. Visitors to the library had an extra reason to stay longer that day; to read Living Books!

 

With the support of the local library, a vision became a reality. The town’s first Living Library was successfully completed, and I was more than grateful!

 

This was just the beginning of my new career in organising events with a social mission.

 

Since then, I have always thought of libraries as welcoming havens where people, us, can find our voice, broaden our understanding of the world, and connect with others. Libraries are open spaces for expression and self-development, where we can celebrate our individuality and build bridges.

 

Stepping into the unknown, embracing diversity, and discovering its richness are the keys to unlocking peaceful coexistence in the vast ocean of life. Libraries are the lighthouses that guide us to this harmonious shore.

 

Two more Living Libraries followed. With each one, I felt more at home. I had found my place in this new world, surrounded by stories that connected us all.

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About the Author

Efthymia (born in Greece, 1981) is an award-winning writer and storyteller with a degree in applied arts and extensive experience in the visual and performing arts. Through work Efthymia advocates for a world of equality, understanding and unity by creating impactful events and community arts projects that promote diversity, self-expression and social inclusion.

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