Nicosia (Lefkosa): The world’s last divided capital
Kyrenia (Girne) harbour - a town on the northern coast of Cyprus, noted for its historic harbour and castle
About 45 years after the bloodshed began in Cyprus and 34 years since a Turkish military operation toppled a pro-Greece coup and took over the northern third of the island, the past is still very much alive.
The past defines where people live today. Turkish Cypriots to the north of the Green Line and Greek Cypriots to the south.
On my first evening in the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, I set out to have dinner. On the promenade near the imposing castle of the Venetian harbour, couples are walking, romantically holding hands. The air of a defiant contentment is puzzling. The place is supposed to be suffering from being ”severed” from the outside world, but its people and tourists show off an air of cheerfulness that has been forgotten in many other countries. There are no hawkers that spoil outings. It is Saturday night, and people are swarming to the tranquil harbour for an evening meal. The charismatic restaurants, from end to end of the horseshoe shaped harbour, are waiting, gentle candles flickering on the by the water. A civilized meal in an exquisite setting that bears witness to rich civilizations.
But the evenings are not always so glittering for the restaurants, and often the candles are left to flicker alone in the gentle breeze. Not enough customers. About 200,000 tourists visit the country annually, and the government is drawing plans for tailored speciality holidays that include tours of religious sites, nature treks and winter parachuting. Massive funds are needed, but foreign investments are slow to materialize because the property guarantees offered by North Cyprus are not internationally accepted. A settlement of the conflict will lead to an influx of capitals. Settlement. A magic word for an elusive dream.
I sit and engage young Turkish Cypriots sitting at the table next to mine. They are soft-spoken, their olive eyes scintillating with an intense joie de vivre. There are no seething masses of pent-up frustrations and bitter vehemence. I am surprised. The young people are not self-dramatising, and refuse to see themselves as helpless victims. They want to assuage their wounded pride because they see the political and commercial embargoes imposed on them as blatant injustice.
I am fascinated by their refusal to hide the unavoidable oriental theories of Machiavellian conspiracies and say that the international community owes it to them and to their own conscience to listen to their side of the story.
They too have their tales of atrocities to tell the world, pictures of desecrated mosques, long lists and people missing and mutilate memories of dark anniversaries.
“People keep talking about the ‘Cyprus Issue’, but do they know what the real issue is about? Have they ever wondered what we, the other side, think?” asks Ramazan, a driver.
Disturbing questions from someone who makes supplying answers difficult. For outsiders, the world has lapsed into the complacent notion that Cyprus is a surface wound that bleeds a little, but is not life threatening, so why bother?
“The Cyprus situation is a highly complex issue that cannot be resolved by good feelings and wishful thinking. It should be either properly addressed or definitely dismissed,” Ramazan says.
The same feeling is echoed by Turkish Cypriots in Lefkosa as they call Nicosia, the last divided capital in the world.
“It is an intractable stalemate, and the world thinks that they can push the situation forward without genuinely listening to us,” says Fatma, a brunette who is ready to talk about her country. “The real devil in the situation is the lack of international sincerity in confronting the issue, in dealing with us as a people,” she says before displaying a remarkable sense of fatalism. “It is much better to leave the situation as it is. At least, there is no violence, no brutal deaths.”
I still believe that her reaction is a form of escapism and ask her if her sentiments are sincere. Particularly that she was not even born when the dramatic events led to the establishment of the Green Line.
“My parents for example view Greek Cypriots with deep suspicion. To me they are complete strangers with whom there is no common language,” says the young woman who works as a secretary. “The denial of Greek Cypriots and their invariable use of words like ‘so-called’ or ‘illegal’ when referring to anything about Northern Cyprus, is really amazing. I don’t see why people love to bury their heads in the sand so much.”
Fatma is not excited, but she is bitter.
“How do I feel about the wall? To people in North Cyprus, the wall is not a wound. It is rather a fortress against terrorism, a protection against aggression,” she says. “We are finally safe and secure. To the outside world, safety, stability and security are simple words, maybe distant connotations, but to us, they are the essence of our lives. We are happy here, and the only thing missing it is international recognition.
As we walk and talk, the buffer zone is in front of us. A heartbeat away. But the hearts of 65,000 people on the Greek side and of 40,000 on the Turkish side do not beat concertedly. “Symbols, institutions and visions are too distant to be shared,” Fatma explains.
We reach the Green Line. The proximity of the soldiers along either edge of the zone makes the conflict amazingly intimate. Military positions match each other, post for post, the flapping red-crescent flags of the Turks almost touching the blue-and-white stripes of the Greeks. I walk up to the barrier. There is no buffer zone here. I look down through the fence at the “south cars” racing through the roads. Another city. Another country. Taking pictures is not allowed, making telephone calls is impossible, but shouting across the division is easy, foolishly tempting.
I am fascinated by the no-man’s land that slices the city in two. Crumbling mud-brick buildings, split sandbags, sentry boxes. Ugly reminders of the senseless onslaught on conviviality. The fence is impenetrable, although it is so ridiculously narrow.
An ugly scar, it becomes wider in Omorphita, a mixed suburb where, in December 1963, inhabitants were burnt out and their homes looted.
Today, 37 years later, Omorphita is long-forgotten, and will most probably remain a ruin. The walls of oil drums, erected during the inter-communal clashes as temporary barricades, have taken the toll of the years. A bitter testament to a physical and psychological fissure that cruelty reveals that reunification of the two parts of the city is difficult, almost impossible.
Like most people of North Cyprus, Fatma has no vision of things being any different.
“We live in our own world, and we have grown accustomed to the quality of life that we have. We do not think about the sandbags and the walls anymore,” she says as a matter of fact.
Her plan is to get married and to start a family. “And where will you go on your honeymoon? “Maybe Istanbul. It is a city for lovers.” But will she have enough money? “Inshallah! My fiancé and I are working hard to raise enough money “for the wedding and the trip.” Normal dreams, shared by millions of people all over the world.
“Do I yearn to go southwards? Not really. I would like to see the birthplace of my mother, but it is not an obsession.”
Last Bayram (Eid), she asked her mother to apply to go to Hala Sultan, a festive twon in the south, along with many other Turkish Cypriot women, but the Larnaka-born mother refused flatly.
“Too many terrible memories,” she explains. Like most Turkish Cypriots, her mother is new deeply entrenched, pleased with the status quo and content with her peaceful life.
We traverse the center of the city. A bit crowded, mostly with baby-faced Turkish soldiers wearing olive green fatigues, queuing up to withdraw money from ATMs or just animatedly talking.
As we head towards the city centre, Fatma tells me that she cannot understand why I keep talking about the Green Line. “You are incredibly interested in the fence, maybe obsessed with it, but we are not. We have been living with it for so many years. Our interest is how to make our city better, more attractive.”
I go back to the Saray Hotel and from the rooftop, I have a general view of the city. The entire city, and not just one half. It looks like any other capital under the Mediterranean sun.
My eyes scan the horizon. Where is the crack? I think I discern it, and my eyes gradually focus on the river of Turkish, UN and Greek flags flowing in the middle of the city. The two different halves of one city. Or is it a tragic tale of two cities?
The transition between the mosque minarets and church domes is striking. Beyond the flags, the buildings are newer, whiter and higher. The signs of wealth are more evident in the south; heritage buildings are more numerous in the north.
I leave behind the city, and drive eastwards amid splendid green carpets of wheat fields. A sense of awe engulfs me as I contemplate the beauty and fecundity of the landscape. The pine-scented Besparmak (Five Fingers) mountains ahead of me offer a fascinating backdrop. The unspoilt seacoast and the glistening expanse of water festooning with birds and turtles on my right evoke a sense of romantic mystery, blissfully oblivious to time. An idyllic country that stubbornly refuses to allow its generous geography to recoil under the onslaught of its history.
The countryside is wonderfully serene. I had been warned that it would be a festering sore filled with claims of massive presence of soldiers along the highways, checking vehicles and screening passengers.
But I am pleasantly surprised. There is no army or check-point. Not even the traffic police.
I head towards the tip of the island on the Pan Hand as the British affectionately called it. The road serpentines through villages cruelly marked by history. Derelict buildings and walls pitted with bullet holes that help piece together the drama that plagued the region for years.
I spot a cemetery sign and I decide to get closer. Not knowing what to expect.
From the perimeter fence by the highway, it looks to me no ore forbidding than the average provincial filed wall. Until I spot the austere graves bearing the names and ages of the dead. Villagers who were slaughtered by members of EOKA-B, the Greek Cypriot right-wing paramilitary organisation that launched a military coup in 1974, and buried in a ditch. When the mutilated bodies of the inhabitants of Maratha and Sandalaris were unearthed from their common grave, 89 corpses were counted.
The location has become a somber reminder of another shocking act of terror of modern times.
I drive on and reach the Abostolos Andreas Manastiri. The Monastery is the island’s prime Christian’s destination, attracting pilgrims from the whole region. A friendly policeman in a stylish uniform welcomes me and offers tea. “About 50 fifty people visit the place every day, but on Sundays, it gets a bit crowded with about 350 visitors, mainly Turks, Greeks and of course tourists.”
I go down the stairs and enter the church. An elderly woman, clad in black, reverently offers me a Greek candle to light. The interior is slightly dark. Christian Orthodox icons are everywhere, and I can discern beeswax effigies of babies, afflicted feet and houses sent to the monastery with hopeful prayers. But none of the prayers is political.
According to the local legend, St Andrew was passing the Cape on his voyage to his homeland Palestine when his ship ran out of water. He thereupon counselled the one-eyed captain of his ship to put ashore, and in this seemingly arid region they found water. When brought aboard, the water cured the captain of his blindness. On his next voyage the grateful captain erected a shrine near the well where the miracle originated, and set up a costly icon of the saint inside it.
North Cyprus does need another miracle to get out of the political impasse.
I drive the remaining five kilometers to the tip of the island, and arrive in Zafer Burnu, where the land tapers into a thin strip that stretches towards Turkey. The coasts of Syria is visible on a clear day.
I look at the clusters of rock in the limpid waters. A true paradise for divers and beach lovers. A remarkably serene region that belies the political fissures in the divided country. A perfect postcard that contrasts sharply with the reality on the ground.
On the way back, I drive through Dipkarpaz, one of the few villages where Turkish and Greek Cypriots still live together, defying the odds. The village mosque is located a few meters away from the church.
I walk into a restaurant. Mayor Arif Özbayrak and a friend are calmly chatting while having a cup of tea with his friends. They invite me and I pull a chair.
“There are 350 Greeks and 1,650 Turks,” the mayor says, dutifully adding that the inhabitants are not particularly close, but do get along well. The two communities live their separate lives and only inter-communal marriage was celebrated six years ago.
“You want to know about freedom of religion? Earlier this morning, the Greeks celebrated their feast in peace and serenity,” he says. “Nobody bothered them or disrupted their celebrations.”
Mayor Arif Özbayrak thinks that despite all the setbacks, there are now better hopes for both communities. “The conditions today are better than before, and we are more optimistic,” he says, explaining that the village will certainly benefit from a probable settlement.
Baki Abbas, the former mayor of Dipkarpaz, does not share his friend’s enthusiasm. “There is no real hope because the intentions are not as clear as they should be. Too many people from several organizations are involved in this issue. I must stress that the religious dimension of the conflict should not be overlooked,” he says.
He pointedly refers to the conflicts in Bosnia and the Balkans. “It is the same thing, and we call it ethnic cleansing. In the Balkans, the situation was remedied on time, but here, nobody seems to care.”
Baki is obviously bitter. “I have failed to understand why the Greeks in this village have been getting assistance from several quarters, including the United Nations, whereas the Turks, who do need greater assistance, receive nothing. It is simply is not fair,” he says. “Of course I respect my Greek neighbors, but I cannot bring myself to deepening my relations with them,” he says, a look of deep sadness marking his swarthy face.
Back to Kyrenia. On the way, I stop at Karaman, a village placidly nestling in the foothills of the Besparmak and where retired Europeans, mainly from Britain and Germany, draw heavily on their passion and love to restore cottages that now offer a relaxed charm, envied by passing tourists. The village has its own small shops and community center, and offers unique views over the green hills to the shimmering Mediterranean. However, its old Greek Orthodox Church is now a museum that opens on Sundays.
Near the Dome hotel in Kyrenia, El Haj Music, is selling computer and music CDs and rents sound and light systems.
The Arabic-sounding name intrigues me, and I walk in. Greetings swiftly turn from English to Arabic when nationalities are revealed.
The shop was established in July 1997 by two brothers who recorded several albums and played in many bands, Mohammed and Halit. In 1998, their instrumental piece, Son Bahar Büyüsü (Magic of Autumn) won the Best Music Award of the year.
It is a wonderful story of full integration by two Palestinians who were born in Beirut, but moved with their families to North Cyprus 28 years ago.
Now they have the Turkish Cypriot nationality. “People are so friendly here. There is no racism, no xenophobia. There is no notion of being a foreigner,” Halit says.
“Palestinians are well-treated. There are about 1,000 Palestinians at the university and whenever they celebrate any religious or national occasion, local officials invariably attend and share the glory of the moments,” he says, breaking into a large smile. Jordanian and Sudanese students have also a remarkable presence at the university, he says.
Sadly, his brother Mohammed died in 2004.
But Halit is proud to talk about how a small country has been extraordinarily helpful with his family.
“You know, the university helped me and my brother set up the shop by providing financial grants. It is a success story, and we are proud to be here. We simply have much more freedom than in the other countries in the region,” he says.
He is so satisfied with his living conditions that he does not consider leaving the country that warmly welcomed him and his family.
“Foreigners are still welcome in Turkish Cyprus. They can even receive passports after spending five years in the country, and the period is even shortened to one year if the foreigner takes a local spouse,” he says.
*******************************
“I don’t want to offend anyone, but Northern Cyprus has been a de facto independent republic for 40 years. Why then don’t you recognize it? Aren’t you, Europeans, ashamed of applying double standards in solving identical problems in different parts of the world?”
Russian President Vlademir Putin on February 14, 2008.
He made the accusations during his final annual news conference after he rejected arguments by European nations that Kosovo was a “special case” in seeking independence.
Putin’s biting criticism of what he called “European double standards” has brought the division of the Mediterranean’s third largest island into world focus.
It also drew divergent reactions.
Greek Cyprus President Tassos Papadopoulos said that Putin’s comments about Kosovo and the ‘TRNC’ had been distorted when in fact the statement had been rhetorical.
But for Turkish Cypriot leader Mehmet Talat, Putin’s words on double standards are correct.
“He pointed to a very important point. We too are suffering from double standards. The west has failed to keep any of the promises it made to the Turkish Cypriot people. For that reason, the West does not have double standards. For me, the west is a multi-standards world.”
The island has been divided since 1974 and the closest Cyprus has come to a settlement was the UN-brokered Annan plan, which 65 percent of Turkish Cypriots accepted and 76 percent of Greek Cypriots rejected in a referendum in April 2004.
Greek Cypriots saw the plan as too concessionary. They did not want Cyprus to become a loose confederation of two autonomous communities.
The Greek Cypriots also said that they would not feel secure with Turkey maintaining 10,000 troops on the island, although the figure would be a quarter of the 40,000 Turkish troops stationed there now. They also resented the plan allowing about 40,000 settlers from Turkey to remain in Cyprus.
But concrete changes, unthinkable a few months ago, are happening. On February 1, Gerhard Schroeder, the former German chancellor, was on an official visit to the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. His visit was a powerful message to the European Union that it has failed to deliver its solemn promise to the Turkish Cypriots who voted in favor of the EU-endorsed Annan Plan on April 24, 2004.
