Same As, Different Than

View from the Church of Saints Peter and Paul to the Sea

Yesterday was a study in contrasts. I drove from Nicosia/Lefkosha through the checkpoint on the Green Zone into the northern portion of Cyprus (the occupied, unrecognized territory--OR the TRNC, The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, depending upon who is labeling the area).

As I drove the motorway, I saw flatlands that reminded me of Illinois fields and the verdant Valley of California. Mountains off in the distance had crags like the Catskills in New York. The climate was Southern California, the scarcity of traffic like western Kansas. The checkpoint, however, with its concrete blockades, the barbed wire, the bureaucracy twice over-- where I had to get out of the car, show my passport, be registered for the day, show the Turkish insurance (not the Greek policy) that I have on the car, and where I was even more unknowing of the language--was not just disconcerting, but a reminder of how truly divided Cyprus is.

My visit to Eastern Mediterranean University or DAU (Dogu Akdeniz Universitesi) on the last day before classes are to begin was so familiar-feeling. The Facilities Office had decided to put new carpet down in the administrative offices of the Department Chairs and Staff—so everything was upended as last-minute students were panicking to register, faculty (like me) were demanding the details of their course assignments, and typical glitches were occurring in all procedures. My chair, Dr. Mehmet Erginel was gracious through all. The whole experience reminded me of my first trip to Fullerton College in the 80s—lots of apprehension about the freeways to get there, confusion about parking lots and buildings, and a positive reception as a “new” faculty person from all --welcome aboard!

My art history Fulbright friend Justine who traveled with me yesterday and I, along with her colleague, the chair of the Art History Department, Michael Walsch from Ireland, took a tour of old Famagusta/Gamagusta. We had access (thanks to keys Michael picked up at the Mayor’s Office) to a gothic church (not really called a cathedral), built in the mid-1300s. What an experience. Although the inside had been stripped (once converted to a mosque), the empty sanctuary devoid of any ornamentation was still flooded with holy light from the open windows. We climbed the narrow circular steps to the top level and walked out for a view of city--and another church in the distance, the sea (see photo), and the incredible layers of history of the Old City with its almost intact Venetian walls and the ghost city of Varosha (left as it was, deserted in the 1970s and inaccessible now, aged—but not changed—in over thirty years) still haunting the cityscape.

On our return to Nicosia, I was stopped by the Turkish police, flagged down on the motorway, actually. Nervous, I knew I had not been speeding, but had no clue why I had to stop. The policeman, who spoke no English except “driver’s license” checked my California card. He hesitated. Then handed it back with a wave of his hand. Justine said she thought he asked me if I were Swedish. I’ve been mistaken for German and for Dutch so far. All I know, I was glad I passed the test of privilege to drive!

Last evening, I attended the Cyprus Symphony Orchestra concert at the grand hall in Strovolos (Nicosia). The program was early Romantics: Mendelssohn’s Die Schone Melusin Overture, Op.32 and Violin Concerto, Op.64 in E minor, and Carl Von Weber, Symphony 1. My reaction to classical music, live, is always the same—my eyes well up and I sigh deeply, deeply, somewhere into the first movement. Filled with joy at the beauty of composition and performance, I am moved by the universal language of violins, oboes, tympanis, cellos, flutes, and brass. Quite different than most concerts I’ve attended, however, was the fact that this one concert also featured one of Nicosia’s own young composers (born in 1983), Andrias Skordis, and premiered his “Piece for Orchestra.” The symphony conductor (who wore elegant, gray long tails (with the jacket and tails lined in shocking pink) announced to the audience in English that the piece was a “challenge to play and a challenge to listen to.” He then asked the young composer (in jeans and a t-shirt) to explain what he was thinking when he wrote the piece. He did, but he did so in Greek. All I can say is that the music was nothing like Mendelssohn. And, how fortunate for this young man to be listed with the others on the program! I was impressed as well, that the community is so supportive of its own talent.

Tomorrow is the “Fancy Dress Party” with friends at an apartment in Town Centre Nicosia. I thought the invitation meant cocktail clothes, but no—it’s not the same. . .I’m headed to a Carnivale Costume Party. Do I dare post a picture of THAT?

Thelma and Louise

My office mate Evi and I took another road trip in Cyprus today. Less than two hours and we were at the southwestern end of the island, near Limmasol, at Kourion. We saw ruins—including Achilles’ House, the House of the Gladiators, the House of Eustolios, a Roman Agora and Public Baths, and an early Christian Episcopal Basilica built upon the then ruins of the Classical, Hellenistic, and Roman Periods. Corinthian columns remained intact; walls, floors, and partial mosaics were evident in the restored areas. Most impressive, the open amphitheater there (facing the ocean--incredible views) is still used in summer for theatre productions. We were free to step among remains of structures that were at least 325-350 B.C. and imagine the events that took place on that windswept cliff overlooking a 180 degree panorama of the Mediterranean Sea. Above the top walls of the Kourion theatre were pipe structures with holes in them, situated so the wind played them like a flute--all the notes, oddly humming across the space--a haunting refrain of antiquity.

We had dinner (lunch) at the edge of the sea in a restaurant that would put to shame those at Malibu Beach. The prices were a lot less; food was fresher, and the local white wine, clear and crisp. Evi ate a little octopus; I opted for something more ordinary—a local version of fish and chips, followed by a tiny cup of Cyprus coffee (always served with a glass of water).

Coming back to Nicosia/Lefkosia, Evi (with the map) decided to take the back roads. We drove along the sea, past olive groves, a tree-lined lane, fields of wildflowers, fresh strawberries for sale at roadside stands, and breath-taking glimpses of the turquoise water, light blue, cloud-puffed sky, and brilliant, bright light from the sun.

Suddenly, we ran smack into a guard gate—a British army base—and were met by roadblocks and a machine-gunned guard. He asked us if we had car passes. Of course, we didn't, so we had to turn around. Rather than go back to Kourion, Evi found another road by the inland Salt Lake. It was a dirt rutted, pot-holed road at first (and it rained today). That was bad enough. Then it turned into a solid mud flat (much like the sand places in California where they test drive cars--no lines, no borders, and no directions--just a straight shot across an empty space.) All was going fine until I saw deep ruts in the mud ahead. OK for a 4-wheel drive--rather spicy in my Honda. We eventually made it across, sliding around more than a bit. Only then, could I exhale.

Other moments made today another in a series of never-forgets. When we returned from our two hour perusal of the ruins, I discovered the car key had fallen out of my pocket. How could we retrace our steps to find it? Surely, it must have happened at one of the forty-five photo ops when I hurriedly pulled the camera out of my jacket pocket. Surely, we could find it among the rocks and ruins. Surely, this didn’t really happen! Fortunately, before beginning a futile search, I asked an attendant. Sure enough, my key was there in his office—along with two other complete sets of lost keys found today! Must be a common occurrence.

More pleasant memories include a photo op of pelicans on an inland pond, our successful maintaining of speed posted at 100 on the motorway (that’s “kilometers” not “miles”), and seeing a double rainbow over the meadowland just before sunset. Ah, what memories we are collecting, day by day, moment by moment, road by road.

Waking Up from the Dreams

In the empty echoes of the night, I awaken. Was it a dream? An unexplained clink in the oil heater? The loneliness of too much space for me to breathe? Why am I awake in Cyprus in the dark, pre-dawn?

Then, I hear it—so far in the distance—the morning call to worship from the Muslim mosque, drifting to Engomi from Town Centre in the ‘north,” the other side of the Green Zone.

The voice of the imam drones the prayer and another responds; faint voices blend into the stillness across Nicosia. I am amazed. I’m living in the Greek Cypriot side of the island, the Greek Orthodox side, and yet, I am so close to the other that I can reach out and touch the sound—and, I can be moved by the promise of peace offered by public prayer.

I open my window and lean out into the chilled air, straining to hear the phrases, wanting more of the connection. My mind wanders to Rwanda, where our hotel in Kigali was next to a mosque’s loudspeakers which thundered into our rooms at five a.m., more of a physical shock than a spiritual blessing. This is different. This morning call is patient, persistent, calming, a gentle reminder that possibility floats easily across this divided island. If tolerance and understanding of others’ beliefs can exist—can be voiced and heard—then conflicting cultures can co-exist. Oh, that it would be that simple—a voice across the villages in early morning hours, asking us all to wake up and praise our God—and to hold each other close.