Thoughts about Safety

Imagine my surprise when I looked out my balcony window the first morning I was in Cyprus and saw a white car marked with the huge letters, U.N., on its roof! The only other time I had seen similarly marked vehicles was in the movie Hotel Rwanda. Then, to discover, that its owner, an official with the U.N., lived in the flat above me, I certainly felt I protected by the world. I have always honored the U.N. troops that are called to duty in crisis areas, who risk their lives to keep others safe. Unfortunately, I’ve seen another side of their lives.

I went to a bi-communal event (on U.N.-protected territory in the Green Zone) last night. It was a simple book launch of a text examining the history and growth of ethnic nationalism, written by two professors (one Greek, one Turk), called Tormented by History. It was sponsored by a peace group, PRIO. To get there, I had to send my name to a website. The event was held at an old hotel (Ledra Palace) that used to be the key meeting place for subversive groups before the U.N. took it over. Now, it’s used often for events. I expected a Hilton Hotel atmosphere even though it's surrounded with fences and rolls of barbed wire. What I found was something quite different. At the side entrance drive, a young military guy was there to let guests in. . .checking his list carefully. . .although he had no idea what he was checking the list for. I said, “I’m here for a book launch.” He said, “No, this is a U.N. event.” He checked the list anyway, and my name was there. He pointed down a side drive. I saw no way to enter the building, but there was a small enclave and a door about halfway to the back of the hotel. It’s a strange place. There is none of its past majesty, except the physical outline of the buildings. Currently, the Ledra Palace houses the U.N. troops who guard the Green Zone and keep us safe. Their personal items hang from the balconies outside; they chatter informally in the hallways; I felt like I was in the boys' locker room in middle school. It is their barracks, their home, so to speak. However, on the first floor there is a community meeting room. I had to guess which door to enter, listening for sounds of a social gathering. There were no signs.

Inside, it was a regular conference room, cookies, coffee, tea, juice before the presentation. After brief moments of social exchange, everyone sat, facing the long head table, complete with microphones. A moderator introduced the three speakers who gave their impressions of the book, Tormented by History. One was Yiannis Papadakis, who wrote the novel, Echoes from the Dead Zone, the book which prepared me for divided Cyprus. Once these three finished, three other speakers (including the two authors) spoke. After that, there were a few question (taken all at once) and the authors made closing remarks. Meeting adjourned. While most of the other guests (or PRIO members, mostly) talked among themselves, I decided to slip out. I only knew two people there, anyway, and one of them an angry man who thinks the solution will never happen. I didn’t want to have that discussion again—especially at that event, where there was a element of hope for change. I exited the way I came. It was dark outside and the gates at the end of the drive were padlocked. Oops! I backtracked and found a guy sitting outside smoking. He said, “Sometimes, we have to go another way, but we have to find the guard first.” He took me to an office where a U.N. soldier was playing games on his laptop. He fumbled around, got his keys, took me to the front gate, unlocked it, and I walked out onto an empty, dark street in the Green Zone (what I call a dead zone within the dead part of the old city). He locked the gate behind me. With nothing but a gentle breeze to keep me company, I walked to my car--about four blocks away, parked along the street by a series of deserted, crumbling buildings. No problem. But, it was so odd. Why are the U.N. troops living behind barbed wire, padlocks and protocol, and yet it's safe for them to send a single woman through the barriers to walk anywhere in Nicosia alone at night? Is the U.N. necessary in Cyprus after 40 years of occupation? Is it just habit? Is it economics? Strange questions, indeed.

The day before, I spent a full day at Eastern Mediterranean University, near the eastern shores of Cyprus. Driving home, as I approached the last checkpoint, I was tired. It’s forty-five minutes one-way, and it had rained, hard. Cypriot drivers are impatient anyway, and slick roads made the travel even more treacherous. Speed limits vary 50-100 km at random points; traffic control cameras are ready to snap infractions; roundabouts are strategically placed to control the traffic flow, so it is a challenge to know what to do when. I drive carefully and am always glad when I know I’m ending the trip. So, when I lined up at the checkpoint, got out with my passport to go to the window to have it stamped, waited in line a bit, returned to my car (in two lanes of autos in the same process), I was eager to merge toward the exit, back to the other side. Suddenly, a white truck cut in front of me. At the same time, a second white truck whizzed by us both. Both had the letters U.N. on the top of the cabs. I watched as these two trucks raced each other down the narrow lane to the final check point exit, slowed to be acknowledged by the Greek Cypriot police, then continued their joy ride into the streets of the city. I was appalled. They acted like teenagers, showing off, gunning the motors, weaving in and out recklessly.

This morning, considering both “events,” I find myself saying, a bit tongue-in-cheek, “Ah, thank you, U.N.; I feel so much safer now in Cyprus.”