DIARY – Matthew Stowell

First invited to Cyprus in 1997 and embarrassed to admit that as a typical American I had never heard of it, I determined in my compulsive/obsessive fashion to become expert in its ancestry. Many I met wanted me to believe that whatever greatness Cyprus could claim was due to its Hellenic heritage, though it had been invaded by nearly everyone. Anything wrong with the country was clearly the fault of the CIA or the Brits, individually or in collusion. Though thankful for such insight, I assumed it was skewered and there were legitimate sources for educating oneself about Cyprus. In my studies I also came across much laughable re-writing of history from Turkish sources, reminding me of tourism adverts I saw in New York that clearly implied that antiquities in Turkey, such as Ephesus, were the products of Ottoman culture. Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right.
I researched all available books and references for six months. The result was twofold. First, I wrote a long article about the period between 1950 and 1974 in which I said there had been extremist idiots on both sides. That article is still gracing the web: Greek bloggers self-righteously cite it as near gospel; Turks claim it as evidence of my obvious syphilitic debilitation and threaten head removal.
The second fruit of my research was a screenplay for a film that Olympia Dukakis agreed to star in but which still has no financing. The movie I envisioned would put Cyprus and its Problem at the forefront of world consciousness, inspiring the populace of the big-fish countries to demand action from their governments against the great injustice and—etc.,etc., etc.
If you’ve made even a cursory stab at the convoluted history of this fair isle, you have read of ancient Salamis. Ever since I first heard its euphonious name, I have yearned to visit. Named, legend has it, after a banished son of the Greek Salamis, it was the home of the very non-Roman, non-Ottoman Evagoras, the level-headed king who attempted to unite the feuding city kingdoms of Cyprus. The other great attraction was the fact that it was off-limits. As Proust said, “We only truly love that which is inaccessible”. Salamis was on the other side of the Green Line, above occupied Famagusta.
Things having recently lightened up regarding crossing over to the north, I decided I had waited long enough. I had to see Salamis. My wife, born and raised in Limassol, was iffy about the crossing (though she had participated in a UN-sponsored pilgrimage to Apostolos Andreas in the Karpas), but she has a fine appreciation for things ancient, beautiful and Greek (which quite nearly describes her choice of mate), so it was a go. Besides, maybe there were some good bargains over there—one can never have enough pandouflas (slippers).
I approached the Green Line with an open mind, but I didn’t realise I would so quickly be forced to open my wallet. As soon as you hit the “border”, you are ordered, in a rather bellicose fashion, to pull into a side road and shell out for some insurance.  Fair enough, I thought, assuming the same thing happens in the other direction. 
A few pounds lighter, we drove on and quickly noticed that suddenly—don’t ask me how—the very air seemed changed. All my senses told me we were no longer in Cyprus. Every building, vehicle, sign, man, woman and child we passed seemed to enforce the idea that we were in another country. So much seemed broken. There was no point assigning blame, but it was obvious that something was very wrong.
In Famagusta we saw two Gothic churches that in design and stature might be deemed impressive, even majestic. But to me their decrepit, graffiti-scarred walls, the ravaged gloom of their interiors, the absence of any enlightening, inspiring art, testified only of neglect. People will tell you that Famagusta was once the pride of Cyprus—its most beautiful and vibrant city. Driving through it now, this is impossible to imagine.  Easier to envision the Warsaw ghetto after revenge for the uprising.
The air felt even heavier as we drove north to Salamis. Appropriately, the ancient site was all but abandoned. It appeared closed so we started to turn round, but an official stopped us to collect a fee and hand us a brochure that claimed, among other fictions, that the area was first settled by Anatolians. It credited the architecture, rightly so, to the Roman period. Of course Roman architecture is based on Greek, and if one digs a bit deeper under Salamis, it’s all Greek. It brought to mind brochures about Hagia Sophia in Istanbul that call that extraordinary church (designed by Greek architects) Roman, not even Byzantine. Such denial, or elipsis of information, does nothing to heal wounds.
We strolled the site, found only one sign—torn and mildewed—providing scant information but were nevertheless able to appreciate the genius and grandeur of the original city.
We drove home in silence, wishing we had never come.