Stumbling back home across the border, 52 years later

Opinion 1974Cyprus problemdiasporaTop Newsturkish invasion Stumbling back home across the border, 52 years later 36196c08 01a1 4871 Bbb1 6234f02d0e21 Relevant News Stumbling back home across the border, 52 years later 13 August 2026 Cyprus weather: 40C inland with isolated showers in the mountains 13 August 2026 ‘People are being left unable to wash’: Anger over Neo Chorio water cuts 12 August 2026 Sophia Neophitou 13 August 2026 FacebookXWhatsAppEmailPrintViber They had been meaning to go for a while, show their grandchildren where they came from, let them touch the ground where their mother learned to walk, stumbling up a steep hill. It had been a long time since the last visit, at least five years; they weren’t sure who was living in the house now. They set off early, daughter and granddaughters in tow, a big plastic file full of documents, the car dressed in new tires, just in case. Extended family heard about the trip, drove down from Limassol to join, a sister-in-law, her daughter, her grandson who had never seen where she grew up and his wife and daughter. Two separate cars, to fit them all, lined up by the crosspoint, waiting patiently, gripping their identification. They passed the first checkpoint quickly, silently waiting after handing their documents to the guards at the second, their daughter in the driver’s seat worrying something was wrong after ten minutes passed. A guard approached them, an apologetic look on her face, holding up an ID card and explaining it had expired; all eyes shot behind, on her, before going back to the guard and asking how long ago it had expired. About a year ago, she said, shrugging. You’ll have to turn around, she explained. She spoke, from the back, voice an octave louder than usual, trying to be heard over the wind, we’re trying to show our grandchildren our village. Lapithos. Lapta. She smiled, adding that she hadn’t seen her home for some years. Her daughter pushed for further explanation, asked the guard why it mattered if all the important details were there. The guard shrugged, again, looked back down at the ID and raised a finger, signaling for them to wait. They pulled into the space ahead, waiting for their extended family to pass by to let them know what had happened. After waiting a while, she left the driver’s seat, went out to look for them, came back shaking her head, telling the others that they also had an expired ID. Parked side by side, they waited, wondering if it was a sign. The guard came back eventually, smiling, and gave back the IDs. You can go through, she said, just make sure to bring them back. They laughed, unsure if it was a joke, and drove on. They relied on road signs, no phone signal after a few minutes driving deeper into the city, he, in the passenger seat having forgotten the routes, the roads looked too different now, the streets filled with new buildings, new constructions. She was made to take a few U-turns, they stared out the car windows, silent, lost in their old home. Eventually they got lucky, his sister in law’s grandson having remembered to download a map; they followed his car until they reached what he thought to be his grandmother’s old home. She stumbled out the car, gripped his hand and dragged him towards the old building, looking for her home. A tech shop stood tall, its new replacement. She stroked the side of the building, announced timidly that it was no longer there, and walked back quietly to the car. The drive to the port was hushed, they were dropped off with their grandchildren while she tried to find a space to park, they reminded her to pay attention make sure she didn’t get lost, she would not be able to call them for help. They made their way to a café, sat down, already tired from the walk, it was unusually hot for April. They requested Cypriot coffee, sipped on it underneath the ‘Hotel British,’ their daughter, having eventually found them, looking up at it with dismay. Reenergised, they trudged up a hill to get to the car, their extended family having left to explore their own village. No longer having access to a map, they drove around in circles, found a van with ‘Lapta’ written on the side, and followed it. He was quiet, sat up front, disappointed he could no longer guide the way, spoke up when they passed the monuments, a war ship and war plane, adorned with red and white flags, he told them how when the first of them arrived, a man he knew ran from the coast to the top of the village to warn everyone. In the back, nodding, she remembered. Soon after, he recognised the road, told her hesitantly to turn left. The road got steeper gradually, and they were quickly surrounded by houses, a gasp from the back every time she realised who used to live in them. She remembered their names, was still in contact with some, instructed her granddaughters to take pictures of each one so she could send them to her old neighbours. They saw their own from a distance, pointing at the blue shutters, told their daughter to drive faster, explaining that she would have to do a more-than-three-point turn on the road down toward their neighbourhood. She struggled, but they made it, parked in a tight spot further down from the house; the others watched them jump out the car, the fastest they’d moved for a long time, walking up the hill at an unfathomable pace. They were silent, for a while, peeking though windows into the kitchen, trying to get a glimpse of the old courtyard. There was no car near it, no sign of anyone home. They did not know the person who lived here now. When the borders first opened, they visited with a journalist; their granddaughters had learned a British man bought the house, sold to him by someone with no legal right to do so. He was hesitant to let them look around, reportedly cold when she started to cry. He had brought the deed with him, a document from thirty years ago, showed the man his legal right to his own home. The man was unconvinced. She told him to take care of the house; he agreed. It’s mine, he said, words that made it all real; he retreated into the house and left her to shed some more tears. That same day, they visited their old Turkish Cypriot friends, one of whom was also displaced. They chatted, a much warmer atmosphere present than with the British occupant, made plans to have a barbeque. A few years later they visited again, a new occupant of their home welcomed them, made them coffee; as she sipped, she noticed her old painting hanging on the wall, asked where it was found. It was stored somewhere in the house, the family living there liked it. She showed them her signature, she must have painted it in her twenties; she asked if she could take it with her. In her sixties, she was denied her painting, leaving empty handed. Now, in her eighties, she stood outside the front door, unsure who was in her home, who had her painting, her initials. They held their granddaughters outside the house, set the camera up to capture the moment, a snapshot of what could have been their normal. He walked towards a bush nearby, plucked a loquat from the branches, took a bite and stared ahead, watching the waves. She walked up, stood next to him, asked what he was eating. Silent, he pointed to the bush. She gasped, now paranoid, started to look around for open windows and observant eyes. Stop. She instructed. Throw it away. He dropped the seed, kicked it under the bush. Her daughter, still close to the house, now standing by a water fountain was staring at an old white building at the top of the village, her old school, she explained. In fact, her mother’s old school, sister’s old school, brother’s old school. Aunts and uncles and cousins had made their way up the hill to attend that same school. Their daughter waved them over, she wanted to drive up to see it up close. Stumbling now, on the same ground they once took their first steps, they made their way back to the car, asking to see the pictures the others had taken. Driving up to the school, she reminded them of the stories they’d heard throughout their whole lives, of her days as a young schoolgirl, the wooden ruler that she feared, though she never felt its wrath. Her nails were always the perfect length, short and clean, she avoided the punishment, or ‘discipline,’ the quick rap of wood on outstretched hands. They passed a small cove, in the side of the mountain, hidden by orange trees; their daughter pointed, quickly, and stopped the car, asking if they remembered hiding there when they first heard the whirring blades of the helicopters. They hummed, unsure, but familiar with the memory. She continued, recalling how they hid behind the trees. The trees were still there, oranges ripe, ready to be plucked. They weren’t sure what the school was now, if its days of housing education had ended recently, or around the time they last stepped foot into it. They exited the car, he, still looking toward the sea, excitedly telling his granddaughter where to stand to get the perfect shot of the whole village. Of their village. Before they could take the picture, a man in uniform much too layered for the sudden warm weather, ran towards them, exclaiming in broken English that no photographs were allowed. He slowed when they lowered their cameras, walked up to him to repeat the demand. They argued, somewhat, back and forth for a while, the uniformed man began to look apologetic as he listened; I want to have a picture of my village. I’m sorry, no photos. This was their school. I’m sorry, no. We won’t take a picture of the school, just my village. I’m sorry, no photos. Eventually he gave up, walked towards the car and told the others they were leaving, they weren’t allowed to capture the school, or the village; though the village was captured, along with the school, and any old cameras and photographs he had in his house, he reminded them. Frustrated now, annoyed for her father, his daughter in the driver’s seat instructed her nieces to take pictures from the car, no flash. She drove around the school a couple times, her mother’s voice from the back sounding more fearful with every photo taken, whipping her head around to look for the man in uniform. They found themselves lost again, driving out of the village, the coast now full of tall villas, recent constructions; he pointed out which part of the land belonged to his neighbours, mentioned his own, as she, in the back, spoke hopefully about returning, about giving the land to her grandchildren, like their grandparents did. After finding their way, despite a few wrong turns, the car was now silent, the big flag across the mountain loud enough. She asked, once, for her granddaughter to take a picture, try to avoid the flag; she was reminded daily, she did not need to be reminded in photographs. Nostalgia turned to frustration quickly, tutting and shaking her head, he stayed silent in the front, raising his voice when his daughter made her own feelings clear, both of them shouting, pointing, what else could they do? He recalled his life before, his neighbours, his stammered Turkish and his neighbours’ stammered Greek, afternoons minding the fields, days spent sipping coffee, his walks up the hill, open window with a seaside view, fresh fruit from the garden. The tension that rose, gradually, before they found themselves drowning in it. 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