My father had a very good reason. He had made a deal with the TMT a few years earlier. He would leave the island as soon as possible,and keep his mouth shut about TMT activities he disagreed with.In return they promised not to whack him in the meantime...But I had no such luck...
I had to stay and do my national service,then I could join him in exile...
Rightly or wrongly my father did not want to leave me behind.So I had to be smuggled out of the enclave and come here,to this house in Civisil, in good time to wait for the plane ride which would take us to Southampton in England in time to catch the good ship Australis bound for Australia.
Visiting this house on my first day in Cyprus after 38 years was not on the agenda.When my True Cypriot Brother (TCB!) picked me up from Larnaca Airport our first stop was Hala Sultan's Tekke (Um Kharam Muselium) not far from the airport...I had been there once before as a 12 year old on one of the school excursions...I remember that day well...We were happy as only students who have a day off from their routine can be...More interested in playing tricks on each other than looking at the Other Worldly offerings in front of us...I was happy to get this opportunity to make ammends and show proper respect to one of the holiest shrines in Islamic history...
Our next stop was to be the Aytotro (Ayios Theodoros) village in Larnaca where I had lived for one year.My father was a primary school teacher and I had the terrible misfortune of attending 4 different primary schools as Father's occupation took us to different parts of the island...As we drove along the highway I saw the sign pointing to Civisil and made a special request of my TCB (True Cypriot Brother)...We were now standing in front of the house which I had no trouble finding even after 38 years...A slow drive through the little village,a left and a right and here we were...
"Lets see if anyone is home," my TCB said. I hesitated. Not wanting to disturb the people inside..."It is my Auntie's house and I was only here for two weeks..." I mumbled..."Did she have any children?" -"yes,a boy and two girls" - "fine ,we'll tell them you are the son."
Soon the door opened and an elderly man let us into the house...I stood in the middle of the living room trying to reorient myself.Two elderly women came out from different rooms and fixed their eyes on me.
"Welcome," said the man, "This is your house...you are most welcome!"
He spoke in Cypriot Greek of course and my TCB translated.
A lump formed in my throat. I turned and asked for permission to go into the room I had stayed in during those 2 weeks. When I walked in I found myself in a modern kitchen. Seeing my confusion the man explained,"We turned that room into a kitchen," he said almost apologically."Your sister was here too not long ago,she too was surprised".This was getting dangerous now,as I had no idea which of my cousins had visited or when.
It was probably the eldest cousin E. who lives in the trnc. The youngest, P.
lived in Ankara last time I saw her,and the boy was now a successful doctor in Istanbul. The last time I saw Dr H. was in 1973 when he was still a medical student. This I suppose is what happens when tragedy strikes twice.Families disperse and lose touch...First the terrible saga of Cyprus. Followed by the personal tragedy of the death of Auntie Ayshe soon after moving to the North in 1975.On her way to a family wedding Ayshe teyzem was struck down by a car.Eyewitnesses said she was walking like in a trance.Never coming to terms with losing her home and her village...Her husband,Uncle Mustafa (the most decent and honorable man I have ever known),became a broken man.His devotion to Auntie Ayshe was legendary in the family...
All this flashed in my head and I felt a tinge of guilt for not keeping in touch. I remembered the old kitchen which was outside in the courtyard on the right. As Deniz pointed out many delicious meals was created and had in this kitchen.Auntie Ayshe's specialties being pidgeon and chicken cooked in variety of ways. Home bred and personally caught and slaughtered of course. I walked outside into an almost empty courtyard.My mind saw the pidgeon and chicken coups,and I could swear I heard the terrified cries of the chooks chased by Auntie Ayshe...My mouth watered and the lump in my throat got considerably bigger. It was time to get out of that haunting house.Inside the new owners were insisting that we stay for coffee and sweets..I had a pressing need to leave before I disgraced myself. I went up to the man and shook his hand thanking him for his time.."This is your house now," I said,"You have lost your own house,so it is only fair."..The man smiled and squeezed my hand. In his eyes I saw sadness and compassion.
Outside,on the other side of the road I saw the familiar wall...There I saw my 17-year-old self sitting in the winter sun reading Tolstoy's "War and Peace".And Hemigway's "Farewell to Arms"...Those two weeks were the longest weeks of my life...Those two books which my father slipped into my suitcase were like Godsent...Before getting into the car I walked over to the spot I remembered sitting at and touched the wall briefly.It was getting on in the afternoon but the sun was burning fiercely...Not like it was 38 years ago on those sunny February days...
The mixed village of Aytotro (Ayios Theodoros) in Larnaca was the stage of two important events in the 60s. I was a resident there during the school year 1960/61...And in November,1967 the last major battle, before 1974, between the Greek and Turkish Cypriots took place there...The first event admitedly did not have as much impact on Cypriot political history as the second!!!
As most of you would know,after the 1963/64 troubles Turkish Cypriots lived in enclaves scattered all around the island...With the exception of the TC stronghold in and around Nicosia,the police forces of the ROC patroled all enclaves as they saw fit...In September, 1967 the Turkish Cypriots living in Aytotro decided to prevent the police patrols from entering the village. Helped by the strong TC fighters and their erratic Turkish commander based in the nearby village of Kofunye (Kophinou) they managed to effectively cut the road and hence severe communications between Larnaca and Limassol...This had the effect of isolating the GC inhabitants of Aytotro who felt outnumbered and surrounded by the TC inhabitants of Kofunye on one side and Mari on the other.
The ROC government feared that if the GC villagers abandoned Aytotro for the areas controlled by the government,a new Turkish Cypriot enclave would be created. At a strategy meeting attended by no lesser mortals as Makarios and Grivas,it was decided that this had to be prevented at all cost..Otherwise they feared it would serve as a precedent for similar TC action in other areas.They also had another fear. What if this local Turkish Commander (who was a colonel in the Turkish army) was acting on orders from Ankara? And he was trying to create a pretext for Turkish invasion of Cyprus??? To complicate the matters further Rauf Denktash who had been in exile in Turkey from 64 to October 67 had just been arrested trying to land secretly in Cyprus in a fishing vessel...
To cut a long story short,after interviewing Denktash and making diplomatic inquiries in Ankara,it was decided that the local Turkish commander had lost his marbles,that he was acting on his own against the orders from the TC leadership...So on the 14th of November,67 strong units of the National Guard and the Police Force surrounded the villages of Aytotro and Kofunye under the command of Grivas...Fierce fighting began on the 15th,and before long both Aytotro and Kofunye were occupied by GC forces...From memory tens of TCs and somewhat fewer GCs died in the operation.The strong Turkish reaction came on the 17th of November. In anticipation of the Turkish reaction the Greek Junta had already recalled Grivas the day before, alleging that Grivas had exceeded his authority by entering and occupying the two villages...Turkey was not satisfied. She demanded the withdrawal of all Greek troops from the island,disbanding of the National Guard,and placing the Police force under UN command...Turkish planes began flying over Cyprus,and the Navy sailed out in the sea between Cyprus and Turkey...
The Greek junta government quickly agreed to the withdrawal of all Greek troops from Cyprus,except the 900 stationed under the Treaty of Alliance...The ROC government refused the other two demands...With the persuasive influence of the American Envoy,Cyrus Vance,Turkey agreed to refrain from military action if the GC forces left the TC villages at once and Grivas was not allowed to return to Cyprus...
This episode in our tragic past is now characterized as a major national disaster by the ROC government. For while the military operation was successful its political repercussions were devastating.The withdrawal of the Greek forces from Cyprus served to demoralise Greek Cypriots,while the Withdrawal of the National Guard from the villages boosted Turkish Cypriot morale. TCs now knew that the GCs could not use their superiority to establish Government control over all the Republic territory,because Greece was not prepared to risk a war with Turkey over Cyprus...
"The Kophinou Disaster" encouraged King Constantine of Greece to try to oust the Junta government.His attempt on the 13th of December,1967 failed and he had to go into exile...The people of Greece had to wait for another disaster,the 1974 "catastropy" to get themselves rid of the military government. Aytotro/Kofunye episode brought about another vital change in Cyprus political landscape... It convinced Makarios to seek a "feasible" solution to the Cyprus problem,and abandon the "desired" solution :ENOSIS...
All this flashed through my mind as we drove slowly into the unassuming little village in the hills...My information had come from the horses mouth,the impressive work of One Glafkos Clerides in his 4 volume memoirs,Cyprus:My Deposition...When I last lived here the events I described had not yet come to pass...I was 10 years old and in the grip of my first romantic attachment to a little 7-year-old GC girl ...Her house was the first thing that caught my eye...Opposite that and on the other side of the road stood the Teacher's House,the place I called home for one year, back in the good old days of early 60s...As I expected it was unoccupied and in ruins...
We went up the stairs and stood under the Cypress trees in the front yard.
We had played plenty of games under these trees.A strange thought came to my mind. I had shot and killed a bird on one of these trees.With a sling-shot. I loved hunting but I was so bad with the sling that I never hit anything.Then one day I just took aim and let go...It was like a moment of Zen...The stone and the bird connected perfectly.Without a sound it fell to the ground totally lifeless.I took it in my palm and watched it as if I expected it to come back to life..Then the pointlessless of it hit me.I had just killed something for no good reason. I cant remember what I did with it.Probably buried it somewhere. But I know I never aimed the sling at another live thing again...I take that back...Some years later I was taking sling shots at other kids during our games of Cowboys and Indians or whatever...Talking about birds,I remember that people of Aytotro loved to catch and eat those little birds which they called "pulya".
They used to dip long sticks in some sort of glue and place them on trees early in the morning.Any pulya that sat on the sticks got stuck forever.I remember they tasted quiet delicious. But looked bizzare in glass containers filled with vinegar and oil (I am guessing now)...
My time in this sleepy village was mostly uneventful and happy. We lived in the predominantly GC neighbourhood and most of my friends were GC kids. Not that I took much notice of anyone other than my little Sweetheart. We met on the first day I moved to the village. She spoke Turkish well enough,as I had very little Greek myself.We soon found that we had something in common. We both loved books.Our favorite place were the steps of our kitchen which were separate from the main house.There we would sit for a longtime each reading our own book. I am trying now to remember what it was exactly that I felt for this little girl.It could not have been anything sexual.I think the main attraction was that our silences were so comfortable. And we were always the priority for the other...No matter what she was doing or who she was playing with she would drop everything as soon as I appeared on the scene. And I would do the same for her...We would then walk away,often in silence,knowing exactly what we wanted to do as if communicating by telepathy...We would get teased something terrible by kids and adults alike.But we didn't take much notice...We were in our own little world...Our dedication to each other once resulted in near ethnic-cleansing. One day coming to our house to find me she was set upon by my 6-year-old sister weilding a knife.Her screams alerted me and I rushed out to see my mother pulling my sister off my Sweetheart. "What do you think you are doing," I asked totally bewildered. "She is Greek and she wants to marry you", my sister explained as a matter of factly. "I am going to kill her!"No harm was done,and I walked her back to her house. "Lets not say anything to my mother,"she warned me."She might not let me play with you again"...
That was my first experience of pure love and dedication. And my first direct experience of the poison which corrupted our little minds...We didnt know it then, but dark clouds were forming in people's heads and storms in people's hearts.Our little paradise was about to turn into a prison ravaged by ethnic hatred...In a few short years my Sweetheart was going to turn into the "enemy". And we would never see each other again...
I went around and had a quick look at the ghost house from the back yard. Then we went and found the school. It was not being used but it looked as if some repairs were being made.I forced myself to remember something memorable. The only thing that came to mind was the cup we had won as the winners of Primary Schools Mathematics Competition.
We were a long way away from Paphos,our final destination. And we still had to make one stop in Limassol to visit the Secondary School I attended for two years...
By the time we Left Aytotro it was mid-afternoon and I was feeling tired and emotional.When I feel tired and emotional I always turn to food for comfort. And right now I was in dire need of lots of comforting...
The relief came at Captain's Table. A world class seafood restaurant somewhere on Larnaca coast. Here I experienced the first of many such emotional reliefs with the help of a superb seafood banquet, which was to become a regular delight during my homecoming visit.And I began telling my TCB (True Cypriot Brother!) the relevant details regarding our next stop...
My secondary education started in Limassol at the 19 May High School (19 Mayis Lisesi) during the 1961/62 academic year. I was 10 years and six months old. This had nothing to do with my being a genious or anything.But with my father's ambition and desire to see me catch up to my sister who had started Primary 2 years before me. There was a logic to Father's madness. He wanted us to finish the high school together so we could go to University in Turkey at the same time. He was planning a chaperoning role for me. Father was nothing if not a forward planner.
So here I was, not yet circumsized even, starting Secondary school in Limassol. It was Limassol because,after Aytotro, Father was transfered to
a larger village near Limassol which shall remain nameless. The reason why it shall remain nameless will become obvious as this episode unfolds.
It was this village,and not my beloved Istinjo,that I dreaded to visit most on this trip. It was this village that proved emotionally most diffcult to visit.
It was here that I saw my first lifeless body. And it was here that I came very close to becoming a corpse myself...
Despite my age,I had little trouble coping with the lessons. But I was not prepared for the attention that our presence caused. Not only were we in the same class but we also shared the same desk. I still have no idea why two siblings,albeit a boy and a girl, sharing one desk should cause such commotion...We had scores of mainly older students walking past our classroom window laughing and pointing the finger at us. This continued for weeks till finally one of our teachers made the obvious suggestion that we should perhaps sit at different desks. So with great relief I moved to the back of the class and proceeded to make a name for myself as the class clown...
This of course was nothing but a defence mechanism.My sister and I were
always near the top of class and the teachers were openly fond of us.The other kids,especially the boys,resented my very presence. And made it obvious during sport activities. Even non-contact sports like volleyball or football became contact sports if I was involved,and I was often sent flying into the air and landing on my arse. I had two ways to cope with this. Firstly,I never complained to the teachers;just got back on my feet and tried even harder to compete with boys 2 years older than me.And I used my clowning skills to make them laugh in class. I pulled faces,did funny imiation of the teachers while their backs were turned,or told jokes in a whisper,always making sure I was sitting perfectly still and attentive when the teachers looked to see what the commotion was.
I was not afraid of being dobbed in.The teachers would never believe one of their top students was capable of disturbing the class.Some of the kids learnt fast to keep their mouths shut if they didnt want to be punished for false accusations. Thinking back,I am sure some of the teachers knew about my antics but turned a blind eye for they understood my difficulties.
Father's well-made plans ended in disappointment however. My sister and I did finish high school together in 1967,but by then the "Cyprus problem" was very much a part of our lives. While she was allowed to leave the Nicosia enclave for Ankara to commence her tertiary studies,I had to stay back till I completed my military service. To make matters worse, at 16 I was too young to join the army...I was expected to wait till I turned 18 to go into the army,and complete 3 years of national service before I was allowed to go anywhere. Father had no intention of letting them waste 5 years of my time...And he had his own very good reasons for wanting to get out of Cyprus...
Let me open a bracket here and talk about the TMT and the EOKA...
There are people who strongly believe both these organisations were established and fostered by the British...The Deep State,not the people...
Was this really the British masterstroke? The ultimate divide and rule strategy? The darkest design to justify the harsh measures they knew they had to take to prolong their colonisation of Cyprus? An attempt to give substance to their demands for bases should they be forced to abandon their imperial rule? In the case of the EOKA I belive this belief to be very fanciful.In the case of the TMT I have little doubt it is true...
After signing Cyprus over to the British in 1923 Turkey had little interest in the fate of the Turkish Cypriots. The British had to somehow bring Turkey to the party,kicking and screaming...
On the surface TMT had the noble cause of protecting the TCs from the numerically superior and evil GCs. Deep down their real aim was to derail the independence and bring about the Taksim or Partition of the island.
If EOKA wanted Enosis TMT was going for Taksim.
As a young and idealistic teacher Father was amongst the founding members of VOLKAN,the political and intellectual,non-armed movement which preceeded the TMT. He was a nationalist but not a Turanist (pan-Turkish nationalist movement championed by Ziya Gokalp). He was a Turkish Cypriot nationalist who believed in independence and co-habitation,not in Enosis or Taksim. He was also a humanist and a poet,an admirer of Nazim Hikmet,the much maligned and prosecuted Turkish communist poet. Our house was full of Hikmet's books,even when he was banned and it was considered a "thought crime" to be reading him.
By the time we moved to this fateful village in Limassol Father's relationship with the TMT had become very strained. He was sidelined and placed under the local TMT commandant. This man whom I shall call Mr Big was an ignorant thug and a standover man. He was only in TMT to further his own career as a Mafia-style crime boss. Stereotypically, he was grossly overweight with a very jovial disposition.But his eyes were as cold as steel. It was obvious to me as an 11 year old that people were petrified of him.It would've been extremely difficult and humiliating for Father to cooperate with this man in any sensible and productive way. Yet he did his best for a whole year.But by the second year he had decided he had no other option but to break all his ties with Mr Big and the TMT.
But since he was previously an area commander in Paphos he was privy to certain TMT secrets. He knew he was asking for trouble...
The trouble came sooner than he expected. One evening in early 1963,Mr Big invited Father to dinner at a rastaurant in Limassol owned by a member of his family.He said they had very important things to discuss.
And he wouldn't take no for an answer. He picked Father up in his own car and they headed off into the night.
During dinner Father discovered Mr Big had nothing much to say. He was sitting with his back to a wall watching the door of the restaurant nervously. And for a man of big appetite he was eating very little.
Sure enough the door soon opened and someone in a dark overcoat and dark hat walked in. The man spotted Mr Big and started walking towards their table. It was then that Father realised they were the only 3 people in the restaurant. The owner,the waiter,and the other customers had disappeared. Mr Big stood up and walked away from the table. Father looked up and saw Mr Big give a nod to the man in the hat and dark overcoat.The man took one more step towards the table and stopped dead in his tracks. His right hand was behind his back. What Father expected to happen next did not happen. The man's right hand dropped to his side. His body relaxed as he put the gun back in his pocket. He then rushed forward and embraced Father kissing his hand and putting it to his forehead as the traditional expression of great respect. It was then that Father realised who his would-be-assassin was. It was O..from the village of Yalia,one of my father's star recruits to the ranks of TMT some years earlier.O...was like a member of our family in Yalia.He was always around,and Mother had dubbed him Father's "shadow"...He had tought me how to swim and how to ride a bicycle. Mr Big or TMT had stuffed it up big time...
O..waited for Father to gather his things as he kept a watchful and disgusted eye on Mr Big who had collapsed on a chair looking white as a ghost.He later told Father he had to use all his willpower to stop himself from shooting Mr Big. O...drove Father home and stayed the night. In the morning we and some of our clothes were all packed into two cars and headed for the big lights of Nicosia.
I know this looks like a script from a bad Turkish gangster movie.
How would I know what exacly took place in that restaurant? Well,I didn't know as I wasn't there. All this information comes from Mother. I am just taking poetic licence to dramatise the scene to make it more interesting for you. And more importantly to distant myself emotionally so I can keep telling you my story...So please forgive my little self-indulgences...
We stayed in Nicosia at one of my Uncles' place. My mother's family did not lack political and financial influence those days. One of my Uncles accompanied Father to the Office of Nalbantoglu,Rauf Denktash's hatchet man. He denied any knowledge of it. Blaming it on Mr Big. Mr Big insisted the order had come from higher up. They assured Father TMT had no intention of killing him.The game was up anyway,they argued. There could never be a second attempt.They told Father he was free to walk away from TMT provided he kept to the oath he took when he joined ,not to ever reveal any secrets he might have. After a week or so we returned to the faithful village. For us kids ,who knew nothing of all this, it had been a wonderful holiday. An adventure where we caught up with our Nicosia- cousins,and enjoyed the fruits of being in the capital.For Father it must've been like returning to hell. Mr Big was no longer the area commander for TMT.And Father was no longer a member of it...But the worst,for Father and for me,was yet to come...
We went to school to Limassol everyday by bus. It took nearly an hour each way. While it was tiring it was also a lot of fun. There were some 30 of us from all classes,and we got to know each other well. The most eventful thing for me in my first year at Secondary school was somewhat personal. I got circumcised...I was 11 years old. Now that is pretty late for a boy. It usually and traditionally happens between the ages of 5 to 7.
But I was the only boy and my mother was very protective and indulgent of me. I was scared of the whole thing and kept saying NO. But there was no way of escaping it,and it was becoming a serious problem for me...
I was too self-conscious and too shy about it all. So I insisted that if it had to be done it must be done secretly and away from the village.So during the winter recess in 1962 I was booked in to Limassol Hospital.There were two other boys booked in for circumcision at the same time. Mr Big's two sons who were 6 and 8 years old. Don't get confused now. The assassination attempt was still one year or so away. Things were reasonable friendly at this stage. But I was not happy that I had company.
This meant my secret was out,the whole village was bound to find out about it. There was nothing to be done except refusing Mr Big's offer to have a joint circumcision party afterwards in the village. I felt I'd rather die than parade in fancy circumcision dress,complete with a sash and top hat ,in front of the whole village.
The doctor who performed the operation was young and inexperienced.Those days doctors did not get to do many circumcisions. The job was done by lay persons called Sunnetci (Circumciser),someone very skilled in this normally simple operation.It was usually the local barber who doubled up as the Sunnetci...And they hardly ever made mistakes.Unlike doctors who often botched it up. As mine did...
I was given a local anastetic (can you imagine it boys?) and was aware of the whole procedure.Instread of just snipping off a bit with a cut-throat razor,he proceeded to use surgical scissors. He cut too much skin and he couldn't cut it evenly...There was blood everywhere and I had to receive stiches to correct the situation. It took months and a lot of trips to the hospital before I was properly healed.Thinking about it now,I was probably this doctor's first circumcision. He must've been a fast learner,for he did a reasonable job on Mr Big's two boys who came in after me. Or maybe he was too scared of losing his own balls should he botch up the job on Mr Big's sons... Make a mental note to remember these two boys. The good luck they enjoyed at the hospital in Limassol was not to last them a lifetime...
Soon after the assassination attempt on Father,an older boy on the school bus started befriending me. He was a seniour student,16 or 17 years old.
We soon discovered we had something in common. We both liked our sling-shots,and we had both graduated to air-rifles during the past couple of years. We loved going hunting. I don't think I would've told him I liked the hunt much more than the kill. He kept telling me stories about his hunting exploits with his elder brother.
Then one day towards the end of March,1963 he asked if I'd like to go hunting with him and his brother the Sunday following. We would leave after lunch and be back before dinner. I hesitated...Father had given me strict instructions never to go anywhere with anyone without his knowledge and permission. I knew he would never allow me to go with people much older than myself. It was worth the risk doing it secretly.I could always say I was out playing with one of my friends nearby.
That Sunday after lunch I met A...at the corner shop across the road as arranged. We went upto his place and picked up his elder brother who must've been in his early 20s. I couldn't take my air-rifle with me,but I had my sling-shot. A...had his air-rifle and the Brother carried an impressive looking shot-gun and a large backpack. We headed for the hills North of the village. A...and I were having a great time taking turns to use the catapult and the air-rifle. I shot mainly at stationary targets like stones and cans. He shot at anything that moved. He was as lousy a shot as I was...
The Brother was very serious and seemed preoccupied. He never fired his shotgun even though we came across lots of rabbits and patridges.
A...did his best with his air-rifle,and I did my worst with the catapult. We kept climbing the hills getting more and more away from the village. The Brother seemed to know exactly where he was heading. Soon it started getting dark and I started getting alarmed. There was no way my absence would not be missed. When I suggested we turn back the Brother said he knew a little shepherd's hut nearby,we would go there for a bit of rest and then head back. By the time we got to the hut darkness had well and truly settled in. I knew I was in big trouble with Father,but I didnt want my companions to think I was a sissy. So I said nothing.
The Brother proceeded to light a fire. He said since it was dark we'd better stay the night here. This area was full of EOKA men,it wouldnt be safe to be wandering around. My fear of the EOKA was much greater than my fear of Father. EOKA men were blood thirsty animals,were they not???
They killed women and children,and even babies in arms. They'd skin us alive and drink our blood. TMT told us so,so it must be true. I tried not to show it but I was shit scared. I cursed myself for not listening to Father.
After lighting the fire,the Brother took some bread,olives,and hellim (halloumi) out of his backpack. I think there were some oranges and apples as well. Food was a most welcome diversion. We filled our stomachs and sat back to pass the night.There was an old bed in one corner,and some old mattresses on the ground. The Brother gave me an old blanket and told me to pull one of the mattresses near the fire. I remember lying down and listening to the sounds of the night outside for anything unusual.I remember the racing of my heart,the sweat of my palms,the coldness of my hands. I remember biting my lips hard to stop from crying. It took a long time to go to sleep,but the warmth and the crackling of the fire worked their magic eventually,and I fell into a deep sleep...
When I woke up in the morning A. was still sleeping,but there was no sign of Brother. The sun was up and the fire was out. My bladder was full,so cautiously I walked outside to take a wee. Under a nearby tree sat Brother with another man who I knew to be A.'s cousin. Brother smiled at me and said good morning.He seemed more relaxed. He said the cousin had come looking for us because A.'s Mum was worried. He said Father knew I was with them,so there was no reason to worry.
By the time we got back it was mid-morning. I was hoping Father had already gone to school. But I had no such luck. He was waiting for me at the front door. But the man who stood there with red eyes and an ashen face was not the same man I had breakfast with the day before. He had visibly aged overnight. He walked slowly towards me and put his arms around me holding me very tight on his chest. I was speechless. This was most unusual. Father was not the hugging and kissing kind. He hugged me for what seem like eternity,his body shaking with sobs he was trying to supress. Then he held my hand and led me into his study. He took a wooden ruler and, in a voice almost inaudible, asked me to extend my left hand. Then he gave me 10 of his best lashes with the flat side of the ruler. I never made a sound. I just closed my eyes and waited for the blows to stop. When they did, I opened my eyes and saw Father disappearing into his bedroom. Mother came in next looking like death warmed up. She didnt come near me. "You must be hungry," she said. "Come and have some breakfast."
It took me a long time to realise I played the role of a "hostage" that night. In a deadly game I had no knowledge about. It is obvious now only Father knew how close I had come to becoming a corpse. And what concessions he had to make to my abductors to secure my life. 38 years later,when I stood in his grave while they passed his lightweight body down to me to place in the little brick alcove,it was not the lashes but the hug that he gave me that day that flashed through my mind. I don't remember it but people tell me these were my last words to him as I climbed out of his grave: "Thanks for everything,Baba..."
The primary school in this Fateful village had 2 teachers. My father was the headmaster. The other teacher was a newly graduated young female originally from a village near Nicosia. She had arrived at the school same time as we had,and Mother soon took her under her wing.
She lived opposite us next to the corner shop,in a house owned by Mr Big.
But she spent most of her spare time at our place. She was a most welcome addition to our household. She was tall,slim and attractive. And musically very talented. After dinner at our place she would usually play classical Turkish songs on her accordion (of all intruments!),accompanied by us all. I remember having a crash on her.
I often accompanied her back to her house after dinner,as she was afraid of the dark. And we shared a secret. She liked to smoke. As it most most unacceptable those days for women to smoke,let alone a teacher,she smoked only at home. On the nights I accompanied her she'd ask me to come inside while she went around the house switching on the lights and checking for any sign of intruders. She'd then make herself a cup of coffee, give me a bottle of Coke, and sit back on her big comfortable armchair enjoying her cigarette. She'd sometimes offer me a drag and I never refused. Not that I liked the taste of cigarettes much. I really enjoyed the intimacy of it all. I still remember the red lipstick she wore,and the mark it made on the cigarette butt...
It was towards the end of the school year in 1963. A few months after 'the hostage' incident. Our secondary school in Limassol had finished the year earlier. The primary school in the village had another week or so to go. That day I went to school with Father. I liked to go and help him with certain students who needed extra help with reading or writing or whatever. Miss N. was late. So Father asked me to look after her classes till she arrived.When by the end of the second period she failed to turn up,Father asked me to go and see what was holding her up...
I remember it was a hot summer's day,and the sun was already burning. I walked down the hill and knocked on her front door. There was no answer. I knocked again a bit more loudly. And louder still. When I got no response I did what every curious 12-year old would do. Put my eye to the keyhole and looked inside. And there she was...Hanging by her neck from the frame of the back door,just opposite... It took me a little while to take in what I was looking at...Then I screamed, and screamed and screamed...
All the way to our house opposite. My mother who opened the door must've thought I was being chased by the devil...
I remember little of the days and weeks that followed. There was an official inquest,but mercifully I was not required to give evidence. Both Father and Mr Big were...The official verdict was 'Suicide for reasons unknown'...Case closed... During the writing of this Diary I had the opportunity to reconsider everything,and requestion my mother and other members of my family regarding the dramatic events which took place in that fateful year of 1963. I now believe that the assassination attempt on my father,and my kidnapping had much more to do with Mr Big then the TMT itself...Mr Big was simply abusing his position as a regional TMT commander to settle his private grievances with Father. And the key to eveyrthing was lost in the suicide of Miss N...
I consider myself lucky to be alive. At that time,in that little village of horrors,there was a tradition Father and I did not know about. The sins of the fathers were visited on their sons. In the years which followed our departure from that village,both Mr Big's sons,those little boys who were my circumcision buddies were killed in mysterious circumstances. No one was ever charged or convicted for their deaths...Mr Big lived a long life and died in Nicosia,where he had settled after 1974,only a few short years ago. His daughters are still friends with my sister who lives in Ankara...
After all this Father resigned from teaching and found a job with the Cyprus Telecom Company in Nicosia...By September,1963 we were living within the walls of the old Turkish quarter. This proved to be a lucky break. For Cyprus was about to be engulfed in a ball of ethnic-violence fire. And for a Turkish Cypriot,the safest place on the whole island was where we were...
Back to real time now...We have just left Captain's Table,full on a seafood feast...Headed for Limassol to find my old school...Let me tell you something now I am dying to get off my chest...I think all Cypriot drivers have a death-wish...There is no other explanation...Why else would you be driving compulsively 40-50-60kms over the speed limit,smoking and talking on your mobiles at the same time??? Now I don't want you to think I have a lot of phobias...When I am swimming I panic about sharks. When I am in the air I worry continuously about plane crashes. And when I am on the road,I am sure it will be my last voyage. Apart from that I am quite normal.[/b]
Driving towards Limassol on the highway,I was not ready to die yet. I had just returned home for the first time since 1969. And hadn't even visited my village yet. But I was very brave. My TCB (True Cypriot Brother!) must've thought I was very tired and emotional after the journey from Greece,and after what we had just been through. Because I had my eyes closed tightly,and my right foot kept twitching. It was an involuntary attempt to slow the car down by remote muscle action.
By some miracle we reached Limassol in one piece,and I was soon standing in from of my old school. There was the courtyard we assembled every monday morning to sing the Turkish national anthem,and to shout out "Turkum,Dogruyum,Calishkanim..." (I am Turkish,I am Honest,I am hardworking...) There was my classroom where I sat with my sister and became a school spectacle...There was the tackshop where I bought my 'tahinli bitta' (Bourek with tahini)...The place was used as a high school still,so nothing much had changed. We tried to take pictures but it was getting dark. We decided to leave that and come back another day during daylight. I didn't want to and we never did...
I was getting really tired by now. And we had a long way to go to Paphos.
And we had made arangements to meet Andreas(humanist) and his mate Jim from Canada in the evening at the hotel where kafenes sung...So I closed my eyes again and predended to go to sleep. But my mind was on something else. I knew that soon we would come to the road leading to the Fateful Village. And I knew that all those terrible events I described to you earlier would come back flooding my mind...
Our actual visit to the Fateful Village took place on Wednesday,the 5th day of the trip. We were on our way to Nicosia for a two-day journey which took us to Famagusta and Ayia Napa as well. I was 12 when I was last here,so I remember it well...
It took us no time to find the house I lived in,and across from there, the House of Horrors stood defying time and memory. It looked in good nick.
We found out why a little later. The corner shop and the House next door was turned into one big taverna/restaurant complex. In comparison, the house I lived in looked neglected and sad. We found out later that it was rented to someone who normally lived in London.
While my TCB got busy taking pictures I tried to compose myself. My head felt heavy,and my heart fluttered gently. I could feel my palms get cold and sweaty. Just then a man dresses in what looked like 'battle fatiques' came running towards us. He was waving his arms around exitedly,asking something or other in Cypriot Greek. A feeling of gloom snuggled up to me. Did I make a big mistake coming here? Was I face to face with a bad spirit from times past? He came right up to me and stood about one metre away. I had no idea what he was talking about. I turned and looked at my TCB who seemed a bit uncomfortable. The two of them exchanged a few words and the man looked physically deflated. He looked at me and at the House of horrors across the road. And switched to speaking good English:
"Do you know what happened in that house?",he said enthusiastically.
I froze. Even my TCB didn't know the hanging story at that point. Who was this man? And how did he know? My mind slowed to a tortoise pace.
"W.w.what?" I stuttered. "What do you mean?"
"Someone was killed there!" he said triumphantly. "Got his balls shot to pieces by the local Turkish Cypriot mafia boss.He was a GC but it had nothing to do with the Cyprus problem.It was purely mafia business..."
I swallowed hard and let out a deep sigh.
"Yes," I found myself saying, "it does look a bit haunted!" I was trying to look reasonably shocked. So at least two people died in that House of horrors...
Then the man told us he was the Muhktar of the village.His mother was an English woman and father a GC who had lived in England for a long time. He had made an official submission to the Government asking for funds to repair the mosque and the Turkish cemetery. He was sick of waiting and the work had started anyway. He thought we were government officials coming at last to investigate his submission. He invited us to his office nearby and offered us cold drinks from a fridge in the corner. The cold orange juice burnt delightfully as it went down the hatch...
We got back into the car as soon as it was polite to do so,and headed for the school. The building was still used as a school so it was well looked after. We told one of the teachers who came out to investigate why we were there. She was very pleasant about it and made us welcome. I looked around,saw Father's old office,and the two classrooms. After a brief conversation with another teacher we took some pictures and took off in the car,passing by the mosque which was under repairs. And headed again,after 44 years, for the bright lights of Nicosia...
But before Nicosia,back in real time,we have Istinjo,the village in which I found life. And Yalia,the village in which I found the TMT and the fear of EOKA...But even before that we have to get to Paphos and meet up with humanist and kafenes and Jim from Canada...This has been a long day,and I better put it to bed before it jumps up and bites me...
The Turkish Cypriots call the city of Paphos "Kasaba" which literally means "the town". For the people of Istinjo Kasaba was the big apple. The place where everything happened,especially the place where they went when they were very sick.Or when they had to go through difficult births.
Remind me to tell you one such birth,not mine but my older sister's. It involves one GC midwife,and two GC doctors. It is not a pretty story,and I checked its substance with Mother only yesterday. And I am convinced it is genuine. But that will have to wait as well...
Finally we reached Paphos in one piece and in good spirits. I badly needed a shower and a change of clothes. I was last here in 1967 I think.
A lot had changed in 40 years. The provincial third world town had gone. I was now standing in a bustling European city...After refreshing we got back into the car and headed for Hotel Astria,a 5-star complex where kafenes was performing. His booming voice greeted us as we walked in. He was behing the piano but I could see his sparkling eyes and his beeming warm smile. We sat down and let his soothing songs wash away our tiredness. With the help of some delicious KEO beer I began to unwind. I was now in danger of falling asleep. I was saved from embarrassment by humanist who burst into the room with enough energy for all of us..He is exactly as his posts suggest. Genuine,enthusiastic,lover of life and living.And Jim's calm,witty and eager presence was a welcome addition to our little party. At the interval we were joined by kafenes,a truly generous and good-hearted human being. He introduced us to his lovely wife who was sitting at another table with some friends. We all got talking and getting to know each other. And made plans for the following day to visit Istinjo and other places of interest. When kafenes went back to his singing he had a surprize for me...The next song was dedicated to me...By special request from The Precious One in faraway Greece who had put me on the plane bound for Cyprus just that morning...I sat back with a smile as wide and as long as Cyprus itself,and let kafenes' voice play their magic. The song went "You are just to good to be true...Can't take my eyes of off you...You've been heaven to touch...I want to hold you so much..."
Istinjo(Kios on most Cyprus maps,Istinco in Turkish) was a little sleepy village of about 150 people,hanging onto the skirts of the Paphos Forest,a little to the north -east of Polis. Together with Melandra,Sarama and Zaharga they formed probably the most remote TC settlement in Paphos...
When I was born Istinjo had no electricity or running water. And the road leading to it was little more than a goat track. things have not changed much in 56 years,though the road now is much improved. But all this didn't matter to me. For us who lived there Istinjo was heaven on earth. The little corner of the world which gave us life and sustained us emotionally and physically.It became particularly important for my sense of self and belonging because,due to my father's job,we had to leave it when I was 4-years old.But we kept coming back,at least once every year,during school holidays,and stayed for 2-3 months...
Istinjo was my mother's native village. Mother came from a big,influential family. She had 8 siblings,4 boys and 4 girls. My grandpa,her father, was probably the biggest landowner in this cluster of TC villages. He was also the shopkeeper,the postman,and for most of his productive years,the Mukhtar as well. Born in the 1880s he came from a well-to-do family which fell on hard times during WW1...He was the only member of his extended family to finish high school in Paphos town and become a school teacher. His Greek was at least as good as his Turkish,and he could read and write in it as well.His teaching career was cut short after an unfortunate and tragic incident. In his second year as teacher,in the village of Erenkoy (Koccina in the Dillirga region,which was to become famous much later after the events of 63/64, as a major battleground between Cypriots of different ethnic backgrounds),he hit one of his students hard on the head. The boy died withing days. Grandpa was lucky to escape prison. The boy's parents did not press charges. Those were different times where children's lives were cheap,and teachers could get away with murder even...
So at 20-years old and newly married Grandpa found himself unemployed and unemployable. Together with his brother-in-law he started buying and selling stock like sheep,goats,cows,donkeys etc...Mother talks about a time when Grandpa and Uncle Ismail would walk barefeet to markets as far away as Paphos town to by their stock. Grandma and Uncle Ismail were from Hulu (Choulou),a village nearer to Kasaba (Paphos town) itself.
Uncle Ismail was to become rich himself and one of the TC casualties of the village of Hulu in the 1963/64 incidents. At 85 he was too old and sick to run away from the mixed village when troubles broke out. So he was killed by some opportunistic criminals who happened to be of GC background,because he refused to tell them where his money was hidden...
By the time I was born Grandpa was well and truly established as one of the most powerful individuals in his region. He was an unashamed Monarchist. I still clearly remember the portraits of a young Queen Elizabeth and Prince Phillip hanging prominently in his shop. Grandpa's key to success was simple.He would buy from anyone and sell to anyone anything people wanted and needed. His business assiciates included prominet GCs in the region. Like Savvas Stroudi from Liso(Lysos) and Hadji Kyriyacou from Filusa.(I am transliterating the GC names now from Mother's pronunciation!)But the man most responsible for Grandpa's rise and rise in business was Mr Pavlos Kivriyodi of Paphos town,who acted as his financier. They were apparently so close and trusted each other so much that they never had written contracts or agreements between them.
Hundreds or thousands of pounds would change hands on the strength of a handshake. Their word was their honour,and they apparently never let each other down. On his deathbed,the last person Mr Kivriyodi wanted to see was Grandpa,who risked life and limb to go and see his old friend in Paphos at the height of ethnic violence...
For someone who could not read or write Grandma was a remarkable woman. She could run the large household and Grandpa's shop with her eyes closed. She had devised her own way of keeping tracks of who bought what and how much they owed. She hardly ever made a mistake.
Feeding the multitude of workers out in the fields was also her duty which she carried out with military precision.And she had sadistic tendencies.
After raising 9 of her own children she was a bit short on patience when it came to her grandchildren. She had her own way of dealing with us if we misbehaved.Her favourite method of punishment was burning us with a match while we were least expecting it. Pinching and Chinese burns were her next preferred methods,followed by pulling our ears...
But she often suffered herself in Grandpa's hands.
I have our own William Tell story to tell you. Once upon a time a lot of things were sold by travelling salespeople who often went around on donkeys.On one such ocassion some GCs came to Istinjo to sell some oranges. They went to the coffee shop and tried to sell their goods to the menfolk. Seeing that the oranges were not of usual quality,Grandpa refused to buy any.
The men laughed saying," No worries,we'll send our wives tomorrow to sell them to your wives..."
Grandpa was most annoyed. When he got back home he warned Grandma not to buy any oranges if people came to the door the next day.
The GC men knew what they were talking about. Sure enough when the GC women arrived the next morning Grandma did not have the "face" to refuse. He bought a basket full and hid them in the kitchen where Grandpa was sure to never set foot. And she instructed her brood not to say anything to their father.All kept their mouths shut except one of the boys,Uncle Kemal,who couldnt wait to break the news when Grandpa came home for lunch...
"Anne has bought some oranges today,Baba,"he declared mischievously."Would you like one for your lunch???"
"What an excellent idea," spat Grandpa looking at an ashen Grandma.
"Make sure you bring them all!"
When Grandma appeared with the basket full of oranges,he lead her outside and lined her up against the wall.Then standing at 10 paces he proceeded to throw the oranges one by one at his hapless wife who did her best to protect herself.Most of the oranges missed their target and smashed against the wall.He was no doubt aiming more to miss than to hit. Then he stormed off without eating his usual diet of fried eggs and hellim (halloumi). Without saying a word Grandma walked into the kitchen and came back with a jar of hot chilli flakes. She sprinkled a couple of handfuls on Gradpa's now abandoned lunch and made Uncle Kemal eat it all...
Grandma's Turkish was almost non-existent. Cypriot Greek with a strong Paphian flavour flew naturally at our house in Istinjo. To the frustration of us,kids,who had little idea of what was said. Later on when the TMT forbid people to speak Greek,threatening to fine anyone 20 shillings for each word uttered,conversation still took place in Greek but this time in whispers. The sight and sound of grownups whispering to each other in Greek,a language we didnt understand was bizarre to say the least. The realisation that they were afraid of letting us know they spoke in Greek made their behaviour even more peculiar. For we,kids, had our own instructions from the TMT to dob in anyone in the family who spoke Greek at home.But we all knew the story of the flying oranges,and Uncle Kemal's hotchilli lunch. Our fear of Grandma was bigger than any enticement from the TMT. Nobody was ever fined for speaking Greek in our grandparents' house in Istinjo...
On a bright and sunny October day,my second day in Cyprus,I got into my TCB's car and headed for Istinjo,for the first time in 40 years. Andreas (humanist) and his mate Jim followed in another car driven by Kafenes.The irony did not escape me. 38 years after I left Cyprus,and 33 years after my family was forced to leave the place they called home for hundreds of years,I was returning accompanied by 2 Cypriots of GC background,One of Armenian background,and a Canadian of British background,all of who I had met yesterday for the first time...Such is life ,my friends.And such is the magic of the internet forum called the Cyprus-Forum...If anyone had read my coffee cup 3 years ago and told me this would happen I'd have thought it most fanciful...
For as long as I remember Istinjo was served by two public buses.
One was owned by Rauf Usta,the senior of the two drivers. The other was owned by Kachak Ali or Ali,the Deserter...Ali deserved his Deserter tag simply because he had deserted from the British Army in WWII. The buses left for and from Nicosia on alternate days...Mother preferred Rauf usta, because he was a good and reliable driver. He also had good manners. While Kachak Ali was a bit of a lad,and had an eye for the ladies...
The trip to and from Nicosia took over 12 hours. We'd start at 6am,still half asleep,and reach Istinjo often after 7pm. Along the way we passed through Larnaca,Limassol,and Paphos towns plus every other village in between as required by the passengers and cargo demands..Mother was always very well prepared. We had food and drinks and books and games to keep us occupied. I mostly read or spend long hours looking out the window taking in the sights of cliff hanging vineyards,mountain goats,olive and carob groves,and the pine covered mountains...
On arrival we could hardly wait to get out of the bus. After the obligatory handkissing and greeting our grandparents,we would rush to the chicken coop at the end of the backyard. Then out the front door and to Aunty's house which stood at the other end of the plum orchard surrounded by mandarin and pomegranate trees. And beyond that to the stables to greet our favorite donkeys,goats and sheep... We would sometimes get unpleasantly surprised. Someone's favourite animal was bound to be missing,having been sold or consumed in our absence...After grieving for the whole of 5 minutes,we'd pick another goat or sheep or chook to be our favourite for the holidays...
But the faithful wallnut tree was always there,waiting for us with open arms,in the middle of the orange and apple orchard. We'd quickly climb up to find the carving marks we'd made over the years...Here was a heart with an arrow through it with my name and the name of my GC sweetheart...There the name of one of our cousins who was my sister's forbidden childhood sweetheart...
The main house in Istinjo was built like a castle. It was a two storey square building made of stone,timber and mudbrick. On the second floor there were 3 huge bedrooms. The bedroom facing the road had two huge windows complete with ironbars and woodden shutters. This was Grandpa and Grandma's room. It also served as living room,and had an open fireplace in one corner...
Grandma and Grandpa's separate beds stood side by side at the other end of the room. His was a single bed with a firm mattress. Hers was an old-fashioned,high ,double-bed complete with metal poles and a mosquito net.
No one was allowed on Grandpa's bed but me. Being the only boy,I had the privilege of being allowed to go to sleep in it. Sleep time was special in Istinjo. I'd lie on Grandpa's bed looking at the 2 shotguns cross-hanging on the wall opposite. The sight of those guns and the full cartridge belt hanging beside them gave me a sense of comfort and security.And the sound of the conversation between Mother,Auntie Bahire,her elder sister,and the grandparents was my lullaby. On winter nights the crackling sound of the fire provided a most soothing special effect. Later on my Auntie Bahire's husband would come from the coffee shop to see her home in the dark. He would pick me up and carry me ,sleeping, to their house just across the garden. Auntie's only son was usually away studying in Turkey,so I was a welcome reminder of him in his bed next to Auntie's...
The following incident took place in Auntie's house. It is still a cause of hilarity amongst those who remember it... As I said I slept in a single bed next to my Auntie's bed. My Uncle,her husband,slept in his own bed on the other side of the room. The toilet was out in the garden. At night I was afraid to go out in the dark,so Auntie put a chamber pot at the foot of my bed. One night I woke up,got out of bed,and headed straight towards the chamber pot. But I did not stop there...I walked to my Uncle's bed and proceeded to empty the contents of my bladder on his shiny, bald head..By the time he woke up and called out to his wife,I was safely back in my own bed. "There must be big rats in the ceiling," said my Uncle,"look how wet I am!" Auntie helped him change his clothes and the bed clothes,but she was not convinced that this much piss could possibly come from any rat, however big it might be...So she didnt go back to sleep but lay in wait. Sure enough a few hours later I got up again and headed straight to the shiny,bald head with the same intention. She rushed and grabbed me just in time and led me to the chamber pot.
The next morning when I woke up and headed to Grandma's house for breakfast,I was puzzled to see my normally sombre Grandma break into laughter and fell off her chair at the sight of me...When Mother ,Auntie and Grandma finally recovered enough to tell me what I had done during the night,I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me...I made them promise they would never tell Uncle the real source of his discomfort that night. They kept their promise,and poor Uncle went to meet his maker believing he was set upon by some giant rat hiding in the ceiling...
Downstairs at street level we had the kitchen,the dinning room,the bathroom and the various store rooms where Grandma reigned supreme.
These store rooms were out of bounds for us.Hence they were magical,mysterious places. Like the caves in Ali Baba and 40 Thieves,they were irresistable ,and we'd sneak in at every opportunity to look for treasures and delights hidden in the various earthenware jars of all sizes. Jars full of wallnuts,almonds,dried figs and prunes,olives,carob syrub (pekmez),hellim(halloumi),and our favourite snacks,sucuk made of grape juice and wallnuts, and Paluze...These were all our own produce,harvested and prepared by Grandpa's "share farmers"...
In the open courtyard, infront of the woodfire bread oven, there was a large concrete pool for pressing grapes.Tons of grapes,both black and white, were brought in from our vineyards and pressed by workers in the old fashioned way: by their bare feet. Sometimes,if we were good,we were allowed to get in on the action.It was lots of fun stomping on squashy grapes which sometimes came upto our knees. There was one occupational hazard however. Bees...They'd decend upon the grape pool in their tens and twenties,and it was impossible to avoid getting stung at least once during a session. But it was all worth it. I remember many nights getting into Grandpa's bed with an eye or an ear or a finger swollen
to gigantic proportions,and having difficulty sleeping due to the terrible itching. The smell of the homemade grape vinegar used to treat our wounds is still very much in my sense-memory...
My older sister B. has a special place in my life. She was only 18 months when I was born. Mother swears that B. spoke her first full sentence when she was 3-months old. Every day at the same time Mother used to pick up B. and go and check if the chooks had laid their eggs. They would pick up any they found and brought them inside.This went on for weeks and weeks till one day,being a particularly busy day,Mother forgot about the eggs. Rushing about getting her chores done she was distracted by sounds coming form B's cot. She could not believe what she was hearing.
B.,at 3-months old,kept repeating this like a broken record : "Anne...acaba tavuklar dogurdu mu?" ("Mum...have the cooks laid their eggs")...
