No man’s land, as it was left in 1974. PHOTO: Thomas Andronas

 

22 October 2011

THOMAS ANDRONAS

Just inside the walls of old Lefkosia, on the south side of the Green Line, lies Plateia Eleftherias, Freedom Square. It was named this in 1974 as an appeal to the future freedom of Cyprus.

On the northern side of the divide Ozgürlük, Hürriyet and Istiklâl streets speak of the same desire for freedom.

Today that freedom remains but a dream, as Lefkosia remains the world’s last divided capital city.

Despite countless rounds of talks, a UN-imposed military exclusion zone still separates the feuding Turkish-Cypriot north and Greek-Cypriot south, cutting an imposing line through the city.

Walking through the streets of south Lefkosia, there’s an air of tension. It’s like everyday life here runs on a knife-edge, the ever-present fear of the ‘other side’ always threatening to escalate to violence.

Even more threatening are the machine-gun wielding guards sat in concrete bunkers dotted along the Line, ensuring that people on both sides don’t end up where they don’t belong.

In reality the likelihood of violence is incredibly slim.

“My job is pointless,” one young Greek-Cypriot border guard tells me. “No one ever tries to cross the Line,” he says.

However unlikely, the patchwork of concrete-filled barrels, improvised rock walls, hurricane wire fences and razor wire that form the Green Line create a threatening affront to those that seek it out.

The buffer zone itself is eerily quiet. Frozen in time, construction projects started in 1974 stand as they were abandoned by the fleeing Cypriots, houses and cars rust and decay. Every obstacle in the exclusion zone has been labelled for viewing through binoculars and the walls are covered in signs prohibiting photographs.

The buildings entombed in the wound cutting through Lefkosia are pock-marked with bullet holes, their windows shot out. Surveillance cameras monitor every movement.

It’s a dead-silent battle zone, and it’s stood that way for 37 years.

The facts of the division of Cyprus are, of course, disputed. As such it’s near impossible to ascertain an objective account of exactly what happened in the period 1964-74. Even official websites take jibes at the other side and throw about thinly veiled propaganda in a bid to win the sympathies of the international community. It’s difficult to know what to believe.

Despite all the ‘he said, she said’ it’s generally accepted that inter-communal violence between Greek and Turkish Cypriots, sparked by disputes over constitutional reform, ultimately led to a pre-emptive invasion of northern Cyprus by Turkey on 20 July 1974.

The casualties of this decade of conflict include thousands of Greek and Turkish-Cypriots killed, wounded or missing, and hundreds of thousands displaced. Many Cypriots are still unaccounted for today.

Despite countless rounds of talks, as yet no formal solution to the Cyprus problem has been found, though it’s fairly clear to those involved that the framework has already been laid, and that the final steps are purely political.

According to island-wide research conducted by the Cyprus 2015 organisation – co-chaired by Greek-Cypriot and Turkish-Cypriot academics – the only option for a solution in Cyprus is a bi-zonal, bi-communal federation. In other words, a unified Cyprus will actually take the form of two separate states, operating under one federal government.

This is considered the only option because a recent Cyprus 2015 opinion poll shows that Greek-Cypriots prefer a unitary state, where their majority can rule. Conversely, Turkish-Cypriots prefer a two state solution, where they have a chance at self-governance. The only point of convergence between the two sides is that they both consider a bi-zonal, bi-communal federation ‘tolerable’.

To the observer however, the establishment of a bi-zonal, bi-communal federation appears to formally abolish the the Green Line, while keeping most of its divisive restrictions in place. It begs the question, do Cypriots really want a solution?

In recent times there have been some, at least cursory moves towards reunification. Apart from the ongoing talks, the opening of several border crossings has made movement between the north and south of the island relatively painless. In 2008 the Ledra Street crossing in the centre of old Lefkosia was opened as a ‘goodwill gesture’. Today it has become one of the most important tourist attractions in the city.

The practice of crossing is surprisingly simple, despite the abundance of high-powered weaponry at nearby surveillance points. Security at the border crossings is as strict – or as lax – as any other European Union border crossing. It’s as simple as a stamp on a piece of paper on entering the self-proclaimed Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC, recognised only by Turkey), and a flash of a passport on the way back out.

There are few customs checks, with the exception of the Greek-Cypriot customs officers apparently taking great joy in confiscating counterfeit handbags often carried across the Line by ill-informed tourists.

More than it is logistically difficult though, for many Greeks and Greek-Cypriots crossing into the north is ethically difficult. Most Greek-Cypriots that I spoke to bluntly refuse to cross the Line.

“I won’t go there out of protest,” one man, named Ilias, told me.

“I hate them,” another man said of the ‘Turks’ that live on the other side.

The Turkish-Cypriots I asked described their feelings in milder terms.

“It’s difficult for us,” a taxi driver named Yunus told me. He said the reception Turkish-Cypriots receive in the south is often less then friendly.

Of course this acts as a dagger to the heart of reunification talks, given that for any solution to be achieved, the respective leaders – Christofias and Talat – must first convince their constituents that any political solution that is found, is also a favourable social solution. No easy feat, given the open disdain projected across the Green Line.

For me – a non-Cypriot Greek-Australian – crossing the line became an issue of curiosity.

Crossing through the Ledra Street checkpoint is like passing through a time warp.

On the south side of the Line, Lefkosia has boomed into a bustling European city that stretches for miles beyond the old city walls. On the north side, isolation from the rest of the world has left Lefkosia effectively stuck in 1974. The Turkish-Cypriot side presents a sparkling facade for tourists, but beyond it lies a dusty, dirty, derelict old town and a stagnant new town.

Moving beyond the city limits reveals a new set of complications. Entire towns abandoned by fleeing Greek-Cypriots in 1974 have been claimed, renamed and occupied by Turkish-Cypriots, many of whom have migrated from mainland Turkey in the period since 1974. This gives rise to one of the most hotly disputed issues in the reunification talks, the issue of property ownership.

The political solution to this problem has apparently already been found, with a joint governmental advisory group devising a three-step mechanism to either return a property to its original owner, exchange it for another, or provide financial compensation. But whether this political solution will be received positively by the population is still to be tested.

The property issue is further compounded by the fact that vast parts of northern Cyprus – particularly in the coastal areas between Famagusta, the Karpas peninsula and Kyrenia – have been developed into housing and sold, mostly as cheap holiday investments to overseas buyers.

Despite this, the two major towns in the north, Famagusta and Kyrenia, have been well preserved and their medieval fortifications speak of conflicts that reach far further into history than the current calamity.

Perhaps Cyprus, where power has changed hands between countless rulers throughout history, is destined to spend eternity in the grips of a political deadlock.

For now, Cypriots on both sides of the divide have no choice but to continue to dream of the freedom they say they want, but might never have.