Where is the Kazantzakis of Nicosia?
I was pondering the sad fact that Cyprus cannot lay claim to any world-class writers, past or present. There are many accomplished painters here, and the music field is rife with Cypriots (or half-Cypriots): Cat Stevens and George Michael coming immediately to mind. In the European music world there is the iconic songwriter Marios Tokas and the singer Anna Vissi, among others. But novelists? Poets? Other small islands, such as Sicily, Crete, Ireland, the Caribbean have produced Nobel-Prize-winning authors and poets, so it’s not a size problem. The few Cypriot intellectuals that I know naturally disagree with me. They rattle off a long list of Cypriot poets from the 1800s to the present day, but the fact is, outside of the Hellenic world, no one has ever heard of them. To my mind, the best poetry to emerge from Aphrodite’s dominion was written by George Seferis, but he wasn’t Cypriot. He was born to Greek parents among the diaspora in Smyrna and “repatriated” to Athens. He visited Cyprus several times, loved its beauty and people intensely (“Cyprus, where the miracle is still possible”) and wrote marvelous poems about it. But where is the Cypriot Yeats or Wilde, Lampedusa or Naipaul? Where is the Kazantzakis of Nicosia?
They say only great tragedy and decades of struggle produce great authors, but Cyprus has certainly had its share of strife. If you read its history you’ll get dizzy trying to keep track of the various invasions and sackings and centuries of oppression from foreign powers.
Some people say this dearth of poets is due to the insular, family-obsessed culture of the island. Writing – at least the big classic variety – requires a societal atmosphere conducive to developing unique, maybe even eccentric, autonomous individuals who can not only absorb the great works that have come before but also create new ones in an innovative fashion. Such an environment is lacking in Cyprus, where the family controls every aspect of the offspring’s life for so long that we have perhaps a majority of 30 somethings still living at home and never doing or saying anything that might upset anyone in the extended family. Andreas won’t even choose a new car without the approval of father, mother, uncle and second cousin. I’ve noticed that if Cypriot young people do somehow grow up with too much individuation (especially in terms of sexual proclivities) they emigrate as soon as possible, because they cannot find acceptance here.
Two other requirements for the production of fine literature are solitude and privacy, neither one of which is abundant in a society that thrives on doing everything mazi, that is, with at least one other member of the family, preferably six. If a young man or, God forbid, a young woman announces that he/she is going for a walk alone, there is immediate intense suspicion. “What evil are you up to? Who are you going to meet?” In the unlikelihood that the person is beyond suspicion, then it must be time for a check-up from the neck up, and an appointment is made with a specialist in Athens, away from the sharp eyes and wagging tongues of the family.
Another deterrent, I believe, is that as Cyprus has become more and more materialistic and competitive in terms of status accoutrements – with rampant consumerism now the norm – any interest shown by young people in things of an artistic nature is discouraged. “Yes, that’s a nice poem/drawing/dance but don’t you have Economics homework to do?” “The competition out there in the real world is fierce. If you want to write, learn how to write a good business plan.” Sound advice in this cutthroat, dog-devour-dog world we’ve grown accustomed to, but not a way to develop the next Joyce or Cavafy.
I’ve noticed in my teaching career that children between the ages of 11 and 13 seem to actually enjoy writing poetry. After 13, they become too caught up in all that I’ve mentioned above. It’s time to get serious about their studies, and the subject load they must carry in our exam-centered school system becomes gruesomely demanding. By and large, their parents have stopped reading in their leisure hours (when was the last time you saw a library in a Cypriot home?) so the poetry, the drawing, the dance is abandoned. I believe it’s a crime to stifle such natural gifts. Junior can still head up his own corporation – or take over yours – but don’t downplay the sweet music of art within. Here is an excerpt from a dream poem by an 11-year-old Cypriot, George Nicolaides, whose parents are too intelligent to neglect his aesthetic capabilities:
I reached up slowly toward the sky and then I heard someone
I slowly asked, why did they lie and not love anyone . . .
I lost my family before and then I stopped my belief
The pain in my heart is still sore, caused by all my grief
He slowly said, ‘Look above and you will see my face.
I know it’s your family you love, but they’re here in Heaven’s grace.’
