I've lived in Athens, in Eksarhia, since 2004. I studied theater drama, worked late nights in productions, and always saw myself as open-minded. I used to say, Let them come-refugees from war, they deserve safety. But last summer, something changed. Not my heart, but my reality. Every day, I took the bus to work in the city center. Traffic in Athens is a nightmare, so public transport is my life. One morning, I passed a man sleeping on the street near my bus stop. He wasn't just there-he shouted at me. Mean, angry words I couldn't understand. I froze, scared, and hurried past. It happened again the next day, louder. So, I changed my route. I walked a longer circle to avoid him, my heart racing each time I left home. He disappeared for a while. I felt relief. Then, he reappeared-right at the entrance of my building. My home. I work late in theater, coming back at midnight, sometimes later. There he was, lying on his bed of blankets, blocking my way. I started sneaking around the back of my building, circling in the dark just to feel safe. Me, a woman born in this country, tiptoeing around my own home. Then, not even a month later, I saw it on social media and the news. This man attacked a girl in broad daylight. She was walking her dog in a park, and he hit her with an iron, splitting her head open. She was in the hospital. I learned he'd been arrested before-twice-for attempted rape in my area. But each time, he was released. Why? Prisons are full, they said. He's a Palestinian war refugee, they said, protected by asylum laws. A police official came on TV and admitted it: even after this attack, the man would likely be free in six months. No space to hold him. I sat there, stunned, thinking: What is happening to my city? I'm not heartless. I've always felt for people fleeing war. But when someone hurts others-when they make women like me afraid to walk home-shouldn't that end their protection? Athens isn't the same anymore. There are areas in the center I won't go at night. Buses where I'm the only Greek, sometimes the only woman, surrounded by men staring. It's not about where they're from-it's about feeling safe. When I'm alone on that bus, my hands shake. I'm not ashamed to admit I'm scared. This isn't just my story. It's happening all over Athens. Undocumented immigrants, unrecorded, with no place to sleep, no jobs, no food. I don't blame them for wanting a better life. But when there's no system to track them, to house them, to integrate them, it's chaos. Greece is drowning. We can't take more people when we don't have space, when our prisons release attackers because there's no room, when our streets feel unsafe for women like me. I hear people like Elon Musk talking about this-saying Europe needs stricter rules, that we can't just open doors without knowing who's coming. I agree. Not because I hate anyone, but because I want my country to stay mine-safe, familiar. It's not about being fascist. It's about being honest. These immigrants, they come from places with different values. Not worse, just different. Where women, life, everything is seen differently. We can't pretend that doesn't matter. I've seen it on the streets, felt it in the stares. We need to acknowledge cultural differences to live together, not ignore them and hope for the best. Saying this doesn't make me racist. It makes me human. I'm scared when I walk home. I'm angry when I hear about girls attacked in parks. I'm frustrated when I see my city stretched to its breaking point, taking in people we can't support. They're not numbers-they're humans with needs. But so are we. If we take everyone, without papers, without plans, where will they sleep? How will they eat? What happens when those needs turn into crime because the system failed them too? I still believe in compassion. I want to help refugees, but not like this. We need documentation, names, backgrounds. We need homes for them, jobs, a way to blend into our culture while keeping Greece safe. Why is it so hard to say that? Why does admitting my fear make me feel like I'll be judged? How do we stay kind but protect our streets? How do we balance their safety with ours? I don't have all the answers. But I know this: I want to walk to my bus without circling in fear. I want Athens to feel like home again. And I want to say this out loud, in my voice, without being called names. Because this is my truth-and I know I'm not alone.