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off-site care, and in both cases they did not understand the value of this methodology
explaining, uεχoυv αυτoκivητα, τoυς βλεπω στη λatκf∣. Av θελoυv εμβoλιa, aς εpθoυv
εδω,5 (“they have cars, I see them at the farmer’s market. If they want vaccinations, they
can come here”). I explained what outreach was and detailed the multiple ways it could
benefit the urban poor. I even offered to raise the necessary money for transportation and
supplies through the NGO, but the administrators still refused. In both cases the
reasoning behind their refusal emerged after some conversation: if the Roma wanted to
be part of the community, if they wanted to be “like us” (σαv εμaς), then they would have
to act like every other member of the community and access medical help at the clinic.
The particular phrase the administrators used, “like us”, commonly indexes perceived
ethnic difference between Greeks and non-Greeks. I had encountered the powerful
connection between healthcare and national identity during my MA research, so this was
not an unexpected turn. Healthcare providers working in the public system in Greece
unofficially regulate access to medical services at the various points of initial contact
between staff and potential patients. When taking medical histories, during visual
inspections, and by checking medical records, medical staff including doctors and nurses
open or restrict access to care according to whether or not the potential patient appears to
be a proper citizen: a category Ofbelonging and entitlement informed primarily perceived
ancestry, appearance, and linguistic competence. When MERIA staff presented these
clinic administrators with research supporting the value of outreach for vulnerable
populations, they still refused explaining that this kind of care was not within their means,
not part of their mandate and, in the end, that conducting outreach would not be “right”
(σωστo). Neither hospital administrator would change or modify the established model