Euphoria, Introspection, Melancholy and Hope

Back in December, when we have had enough of the Italian cold weather, we decide to spend a few days in Cyprus. I guess this blog is still too new for you to know I love all that’s Greek: the people, the language, the music, the food. Cyprus has so much Hellenic blood in it, that just the idea of flying there had me dreaming wonderful Aegean dreams from day to evening, eyes wide open.

Cyprus is the third largest island in the Eastern Mediterranean, it faces Turkey and, since 1974, it is politically divided into two nations, the south being The Republic of Cyprus; and the northern area, the self-declared Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, only recognized by Turkey.

This is not a post in itself, it’s just a promise. I wish it was a promise of future change, but I can only promise a future post about the island. Right now, what I am writing is a fragment of my memories. The feelings of leaving a country and entering another one, under certain conditions.

Conditions that I am only able to relate to history books, to a long gone childhood on the sofa, watching the news on TV with my dad, international news that sound so remote in every single way. Why those feelings? Why the sadness? And why such an emptiness?

Cyprus, Minaret and Former Church

Mosque built on a Church.

Seen through the lenses of time

All around us, tangible signs of division, barbed wired, sandbags, prohibition signs, UN barrels, barriers, cats, loneliness, emptiness. Signs on the wall warn you Nicosia, the last divided capital. Melancholy takes over me, and there it stays for the rest of the day.

My children keep talking, they belong to another century, for them it is like a game. We will talk about it all later one, even about wars and divisions; and soldiers smoking cigarettes that carry weapons on the shoulder. A look in the eye at my husband was enough.

He takes of our kids, that moment is mine, I feel stuck in the middle of nowhere, with myself and the memory of my dad, our conversations about politics, the World, the good and the bad.

And there I want to stay, in a piece of that past, in a piece of the seventies and the eighties, in our sitting room watching the international news. Everything feels oblivious but intimate at the same time. It’s so hard to explain.

Rite of Passage Barricades, Cyprus

Barricades.

How long are you planning to stay? Why are you visiting?

A seal on a separate piece of paper, you’re in. Then a loud, unfamiliar resonance brings me back to reality, the muezzin is calling to prayer. The view of my children playing near a bench brings me back to reality. I look up and can’t help smiling at them, my faith in humanity is not restored, but it’s not completely lost after all…

Rite of Passage P 3

 

 

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