Border hopping in Cyprus (part 1): welcome to Erdogan’s dollhouse

Divided by a border called the Green Line, Cyprus is an island of two halves. The Cypriot Greeks and the Turks act like long-estranged spouses, still unsure if they should go on with their messy divorce or get back together asap. “The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is Erdogan’s dollhouse.”

Welcome to the country recognised by Turkey and no one else

“The Turks are disgusting”, grumbled a chubby man with a British accent. Seated in his fancy SUV, we were hardly in the position to disagree. He had, after all, stopped for us when we raised our thumbs after crossing the border that separates the south from the north of Cyprus. Walking through the no man’s land, past rolls of corroded barbed wire and crumbling houses riddled with bullet holes and covered with shrubs, the reality of Cyprus had hit us hard. First, a little red triangle warned for mines, mayin, Νάρκες, in three languages. A few hundred metres along the road, a sign welcomed us to the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus. A country recognised by Turkey and no one else.

With facilities lacking on the north side of the island, there was no public transport from the border to the city the Greeks call Famagusta and the Turks Gazimağusa. So we were happy when the chubby man pulled over. He threw his golf gear in the trunk of his car and offered us a ride to Famagusta, where he wanted to fill up his car with cheap gasoline. “That’s the only reason why I ever set foot on the Turkish side”, he whined. “I mean, look at what they did to Cyprus! This used to be a peaceful island in the Mediterranean Sea. No, I don’t want anything to do with the Turks. And certainly not with their president.”

“You mean the president of Turkey Turkey?” I offered.

“Yeah, he’s a real fruit cake. And the president of North Cyprus is his hand puppet. Turkey pulls the strings.”

“So you sympathise with the Greek Cypriots?” I asked.

“Are you crazy?!” he bellowed. “The Greeks are fucking hypocrites! When they had the chance to reunite the island, they all voted against it. Just because their crybaby of a president wept on national television.” The man was now in full swing. “In what other country would that happen? Can you imagine Margaret Thatcher crying on tv? Or David Cameron? Never! It’s emotional blackmailing. Hypocrites, that’s what they are! Because the Greeks don’t have a problem coming to North Cyprus to fill up their cars on the cheap. Or to shop, eat or drink. No, man, I love this island, I just can not stand the people living on it!”

Before you shout at your computer that the Brit – if he detested the Cypriots so much – should just GO HOME… Cyprus is his home. It turned out he belonged to the Maronites, a minority of Christian Arabs who historically lived on this island. His parents had moved to Essex when he was a two-year-old, but his background had always allowed him access to both sides of Cyprus. “Sometimes, Greeks would write down their address and ask me to go and make a video. They hadn’t seen their home in years.” Be that as it may, the encounter was a prelude to situations we would find ourselves in all over Cyprus. Because there is not a person walking around on this island who does not have an opinion on ‘the issues’. And who doesn’t loudly share it.

The green line

The Turkish invasion happened in 1974, but the roots of the problem go way back. Historically, Cyprus has been conquered and populated by a hodgepodge of peoples. At times, that went well. For example, Nikiphoros, our host in Limassol, told us that his grandmother remembered how Greeks and Turks lived together peacefully. “We had different religions, but otherwise there were no problems”, he had said. But just as often, things didn’t go that well. Ethnic violence flared up regularly on both sides. In a craft beer bar in northern Nicosia, a young local told us that if it wasn’t for the Turkish invasion, he might’ve never been born. “To my grandparents, it felt like a genocide at times”, he said. On both sides of the borders, we encountered monuments for the dead and missing. An estimated 1000 Greek Cypriots are still not found.

When Greek Cypriot hardliners pushed for enosis – reunification with the Hellenic motherland – things got out of hand. After a failed Athens-backed putsch, Turkish tanks rolled onto the island, to ensure the safety of the Turkish population. Greek refugees fled to the southern part of the island, Turkish ones to the north. Many hastily buried jewellery and gold in their gardens, sure they’d be back soon. But they wouldn’t be.

Eventually, the UN established a buffer zone – the green line, after the colour of the pen with which the area was first marked on a map. Ever since, Cyprus has been stuck in a stalemate. Every now and then, the hope for a solution grows, but the puzzle has certainly not become easier since 1974. For example, Ankara encouraged many mainland Turks to immigrate to Cyprus. In a 2004 referendum, Turkish Cypriots voted in favour of reunification, whereas Greek Cypriots, after that presidential cry on tv our buddy got so wound up about, rejected it en masse.

About the period before the troubles, the invasion itself and its aftermath, Elif Shafak wrote the memorable The Island of Missing Trees, a history lesson disguised as a love story. Highly recommended, especially if you have an arboreal interest.

Erdogan’s dollhouse

Nowadays, when we moved from the European south to the Turkish north, it felt like stepping into a different world. That feeling was strongest in Nicosia, where we crossed the border straight into a busy eastern bazaar. All of a sudden, sidewalks were no longer straight and well-kept, churches turned into mosques and cafes offered hookah pipes. More about Nicosia in a future blog post. We’re not going to argue that the south of Cyprus excels in order, but the north is sheer organised chaos, in the best possible way. In Gazimağusa, the guard of a medieval tower left his post, signalling that we could enter for free. From the dusty plains near Iskele arose resorts where Russian was the main language. Like the motherland, the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus also presented an endless parade of cups of too-strong tea.

One day, whilst staying in Iskele, we rented a bike and cycled into the heartland of Northern Cyprus. The further from the coasts we ventured, the simpler the villages became. Shepherds let their flocks graze on vacant lots beside the road, while they themselves rested under a tree. A grandma stumbled across the streets, her stockings reaching above her knees. From under her headscarf peeped a tormented, wrinkled face, chocolate brown from the sun. Children played in unfashionable training suits. We halted at a village büfe, hoping for a cold Coke. Above a long table with a worn-out plastic tablecloth hung a row of state portraits of Turkish leaders. According to Anete, Erdogan’s looked like the uncle who drinks too much at family parties. To our great disappointment, the büfe was closed.

Life in North Cyprus certainly felt vibrant, but there was still something vaguely artificial about the country. The military was omnipresent – alert, perhaps overly, to the possibility of the Southerners trying to strike back. The biggest business in North Cyprus, however, turned out to be education. The government tries to lure students from all over the developing world, as well as from mainland Turkey. In Nicosia, we stayed for a few nights with Fikret, a university professor originally from, as he called it, “the progressive side of Turkey.” Talking to him and to Selin, one of his students, gave us more insight into the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus.

“I don’t think it’s a real country”, said Selin. “Rather, it’s a dollhouse that Erdogan and Suat Günsel, a rich man who owns half of Northern Cyprus, play with.” For example, Selin couldn’t order an iPhone because the country officially does not exist. Packages and letters have to be addressed to postal addresses in mainland Turkey. The airport, too, is not recognised; all flights to and fro Northern Cyprus have to make a stopover in Turkey. And because Fikret arrived on the island via Turkey, he can’t enter the European part of Cyprus. “I’d have to fly first to Turkey, then Athens and finally to Paphos or Larnaca.”

Turkish dogs

Almost fifty years after the Turkish invasion, a lot of bad blood lives on between the two groups. This was also evident from the ways in which they still approach the events that happened in 1974. The south talked about a hostile “invasion”, whilst a tourist brochure we picked up in the north called it a “peace operation”. Three monks lived for a long time near the church of Saint Barnabas, the semi-apostle who converted Cyprus to Christianity. After 1974, their monastery was all of a sudden located in the Turkish north of the island. They then moved to the monastery of Stavrovouni, in the south, according to Lonely Planet weary from the bureaucracy and endless visa procedures. That same tourist brochure, however, stated they moved because of “old age and illness.”

The South, in particular, is still very sensitive to any mention of what happened in the 70s. Since our arrival in Cyprus, we wanted to explore the Troödos Mountains, the range that straddles the interior of the island. When we wrote to the Ministry of Tourism, in search of a collaboration for an article, their answer was: we’ll only help you if you don’t visit the north (too late) or, at the very least, don’t write about it.

Another time, when we crossed back into the south, a Greek Cypriot customs officer pointed out that my Covid vaccine had expired, and that I needed another test before I could enter the country. He wasn’t fazed by my pleas, wouldn’t make an exception even for his grandmother. Let alone for a foreigner who thought it necessary to visit those bullies from the north. There was nothing to do but to turn back and look for a test centre. “Do you know where I can find a pharmacy in the north?” I asked.

To his ears, the question undoubtedly sounded like: “Do you ever get intimate with a sheep?” If looks could kill, only a heap of ash and a few bone fragments would’ve remained of me. “Are you crazy?” he roared. “I haven’t been there since 1974 and don’t plan to change that anytime soon.” He is far from the only one. After the invasion, the Greek Cypriots lost two of their biggest cities, the lion’s share of the island’s citrus industry and its most important tourist resort, Varosha. It still angers many Southerners to this day. For some, a confrontation with their former home is too difficult, others refuse to show their passport to enter what’s in their eyes ostensibly a part of their own country.

In the Troödos Mountains, we met a beekeeper who belonged to the second category. He categorically refused to name the Turkish part as such, preferring to speak of the “occupied territories” and the “free part” of Cyprus. “I don’t have a problem with the Turkish Cypriots, it’s those assholes from the mainland I can’t stand”, he said. That was also the reason why he, as a pappóus, a grandfather, was still an officer in the army. “I have not given up the hope of beating Erdogan and driving those Turkish dogs off our island.” That attitude made it extra strange to us that the man did not support the EU’s military aid to Ukraine – the war with Russia had just begun. Isn’t it bizarre, to say the least, that an invasion should only be opposed if it happens in one’s own country?

Berlin of modern times

Will the conflict ever be resolved? Can Cyprus become one again? Difficult to predict. A solution will not come from hardliners such as the beekeeper or the customs officer. They don’t want to move an inch. But many young people are not burdened with the legacy of the past, they have not personally experienced the pain. They have no real memories save for the stories they’re told. Many of them are frustrated, they feel that political forces from outside the island are foisting problems onto them.

Since the borders have opened, Turkish Cypriots look for work in the south, whilst Greek Cypriots do their shopping in the north. They mix and notice that the differences between them are not as great as they seemed from behind the barbed wire. Unification can only come about if people talk to each other again. Meanwhile, Cyprus remains a unique place on earth, a Berlin of modern times, a conflict frozen in time.

Further reading

• The Island of Missing Trees by Elif Shafak. In the Romeo and Juliet of Cyprus, a Greek boy and a Turkish girl fall in love whilst the world around them falls apart. This compelling and highly recommended read features a fig tree as one of the main characters.
• Islands of Abandonment by Cal Flyn. In one of my favourite non-fiction books of recent times, Flyn looks for the places abandoned by humans and reoccupied by nature. One chapter is about the green line and the ways in which nature has rebounded there.