Stavrogonno

SUNUŞ

Böyle bir kitap yayınlama ihtiyacı hissetmiş olmamın, elbette kendimce nedenleri var. Bunların arasında öne çıkanları, kişisel tarihimle yüzleşmek, belleğin güve yeniği boşluklarını doldurmak, Stavrogonnolu ve Kıbrıslı’lar olarak, geçmişle aramızdaki zorunlu küskünlüğü giderme girişimi, Baf kazasına bağlı Stavrogonno’nun bir zamanlar, sokaklarında en sıradışı Kıbrıslıtürkler’in dolaştığı köylerden birisi olduğunu vurgulamak, ve zaman aşımıyla çürümenin insafsız etkilerini yavaşlatma uğraşı şeklinde sıralayabiliriz.

Bilindiği gibi göçler ardından parçalanmayı da getirir. Bizden öncekilerden miras kalmış, yıllarca birbirlerine eklene ulana kimliğimizin parçası haline gelmiş değerleri göçle birlikte yitirir, asırlarca yaşamış olduğumuz yerin coğrafyasına duyduğumuz sevgiye bile zamanla yabancılaşırız. Nitelikli bir yaşam için illa ki kuş olup uçmamız gerekmez, bazen toprağa, köklerimize sarılmak da yeterince uyarıcı olabilir.

Stavrogonno köyü, Baf bölgesinin en büyük ve kalabalık yerleşim yerlerinden birisiydi. Doğa yasalarıyla şekillenmiş yaşam tarzını, bu yabani yamaçlarda filizlenmiş karakterleri tahmin etmek için hayal gücünden fazlasına ihtiyaç vardır. Araştırmalarım sırasında, o döneme ait öyle fotoğraflara rastladım ki, yakın geçmişimle şimdilerde sürdürdüğüm yaşam arasındaki, bilinçsizliğin neden olduğu kopukluğun ayrımına varmak, itiraf etmeliyim ürküttü beni. Bu bağlamda, diyebilirim ki, tahta valizler ile tozlu albümlerden çıkan her fotoğraf, o yitik köprüyü yeniden inşa etmemi kolaylaştıracak küçük birer taş görevi gördü adeta. Neden oldukları aydınlanmanın yanı sıra, deştikçe derinleşen hikayeleriyle gelen fotoğraflar, ürküntümü de merak duygusuna dönüştürmeye başlamıştı. Aynı zamanda kitabın doğum sancılarını da çekmeye başladığım dönemdi bu.

Beş yıldan beridir Baf’ta yaşamanın verdiği avantajla, bir yandan cömert coğrafyasını özümsememi sağlayacak geziler biriktirirken, bir yandan da, bana sunduğu tatların ve daha başka gizlerin keşifleriyle kitap fikrini harmanlayıp çalışırken aldığım keyfi, tüm Kıbrıslılarla da paylaşmak istedim.

Ev ev dolaşıp topladığımız, Stavrogonnolu’lardan geriye kalan fotoğrafların, şimdilik 1900’lerin başından 1970’lerin sonuna kadar olanlarını yayımlıyorum. Altını çizmeden geçemeyeceğim bir başka noktaysa, bazı evlerde gördüğüm, ilgisizlikten yıpranmış fotoğrafların, beni ne kadar üzdüğüdür. Belki fotoğrafları koruyup paylaşmakla yeni bir köy yaratamayız, ama en azından eski köyün nostaljik imgelerinin hatırlanmasına serum olacaksa neden olmasın.

Bin yıllar var insanlar birbirlerine kim olduklarını sorup duruyorlar. Benim cevabımın bir parçası bu kitabın içeriğindedir. Kitaba bakarken kendimi Stavrogonno’da düzenlenen, ölen ve kalanlarıyla herkesin bir arada olduğu o eski panayırlardan birindeymişim gibi hissettim.

Yaklaşık dört yıl sürmüş olan bu zahmetli çalışma neticesinde, arşivimde bine yakın fotoğraf birikti. Kullanılacak fotoğrafları seçerken eskilik, çeşitlilik, içerik zenginliği ve estetik değerleri göz önünde bulundurdum. Fotoğraflar kronolojik sıraya göre dizilmiştir. Altlarına yazılan tarihler, fotoğrafın çekildiği yaklaşık tarihi belirtmektedir.

Bu çalışmaya emek vermiş olan herkese, öncelikle ellerindeki fotoğrafları bizlerle paylaşan tüm Stavrogonnolu’lara (hatta paylaşmak istemeyenlere bile) teşekkür ederim. Şiir, düzyazı ve çevrileriyle kitabı zenginleştiren Gür Genç, Jenan Selçuk ve Oya Akın’a; fotoğrafların toplanmasında yardımcı olan Tanju Çetin, Faik Hasan ve Sönmez Enver’e, tarih ve isimlerin bulunmasında yardımlarını esirgemeyen annem Emine Hüseyin, babam Kadir Adem ve Aygün Mustafa’ya; katkıları için Stavrogonno Cash & Carry Süpermarket’in sahibi Fuat Nesip’e, Leni Photi, Andreas Costantinou ve Pien Perre’e; ayrıca Yunanca çevirileri yapan Yasemin Nazlı, Evangelia Tsourou, Niki Marangou, Rinos Stefaniy’ye; grafik dizaynı hazırlayan Dorey Zgheib’e , bilgi ve tavsiyeleri için Charalambos Iacovou ve Stephanos Stephanidis’e de tekrar tekrar teşekkür ederim.

Ve elbette, çektikleri bu fotoğraflarlarla, geçmişin izlerinin yok olmasını önleyenlere de, gönülden bir teşekkür borçluyuz hepimiz. 

Köklerim ve kanatlarım arasındaki boşluğun daha da azalmasını sağlayan bu kitabı, yerlerinden göç ettirilmiş olan bütün Kıbrıslılara adıyorum.

İleride kitap genişletilebilir, bu nedenle, kitabın ilk basımında ulaşamadıklarımız arasından, ellerindeki belge ve fotoğrafları paylaşmak isteyenler, genchgench@yahoo.co.uk  e-mail adresi, ya da +357 99143052 ve +9 0392 3777919 numaralı telefonlar aracılığıyla, bizlerle temasa geçebilirler.

                                                                        

                                                                                               

Ergenc Mehmet Korkmazel

ΠΡΟΛΟΓΟΣ

Η ανάγκη που ένοιωσα για να εκδώσω ένα τέτοιο βιβλίο, οφείλεται, φυσικά, σε προσωπικούς μου λόγους. Ανάμεσα σ΄ αυτούς, ξεχωρίζουν, η επιθυμία να αντικρίσω την προσωπική μου ιστορία, να αναπληρώσω τα σκοροφαγωμένα κενά της μνήμης, η επιθυμία να απαλειφθεί η αναγκαστική απομάκρυνση μας, ως Σταυροκοννιώτες και ως Κύπριοι, από το παρελθόν μας. Τη Σταυροκόννου, ένα χωριό της Πάφου, που, ας το τονίσουμε – στους δρόμους του κάποτε κυκλοφορούσαν οι πιο εκλεκτοί Τ/ Κύπριοι, μπορεί να καταταγεί στα χωριά που αγωνίζονται να αντισταθούν στην ανελέητη φθορά του χρόνου.

Οι αξίες που μας κληροδότησαν οι πρόγονοι μας και πέρασαν από γενιά σε γενιά σαν κομμάτι της ταυτότητας μας, χάνονται μαζί με την προσφυγιά. Αποξενωνόμαστε ακόμη και από την αγάπη μας για τα μέρη όπου ζήσαμε για αιώνες. Δεν χρειάζεται, ντε και καλά, να πετάμε μακριά σαν πουλιά για μια ποιοτική ζωή. Αν αγκαλιάζουμε μερικές φορές τη γη μας, τις ρίζες μας, είναι κάτι που μπορεί να μας προσφέρει πολλά.

Το χωριό Σταυροκόννου, ήταν ένας από τους μεγαλύτερους και πολυπληθέστερους οικισμούς της επαρχίας Πάφου. Χρειάζεται περίσσια φαντασία για να εκτιμήσουμε εκείνο τον τρόπο ζωής, τον σύμφωνο με τους νόμους της Φύσης, τα χαρακτηριστικά της που φύτρωσαν στις άγριές πλαγιές. Ψάχνοντας, βρήκα κάτι φωτογραφίες εκείνης της εποχής, και, πρέπει να παραδεχτώ ότι με τρόμαξε το γεγονός ότι η άγνοια έγινε αιτία για το χάσμα ανάμεσα στο πρόσφατο παρελθόν μου και τη σημερινή μου ζωή. Σ΄ αυτό το πλαίσιο, μπορώ να πω, ότι κάθε φωτογραφία που βγαίνει από τα ξύλινα μπαούλα και τα σκονισμένα άλμπουμ, ήταν ένα λιθαράκι που με διευκόλυνε στο έργο της ανοικοδόμησης εκείνης της γκρεμισμένης γέφυρας. Οι φωτογραφίες, ρίχνοντας φως στις αιτίες, παράλληλα άρχισαν  με τις ιστορίες τους, να μετατρέπουν τον τρόμο μου σε περιέργεια.  Συγχρόνως, αυτή ήταν η στιγμή που άρχισε να κυοφορείται το βιβλίο μου.

Εδώ και πέντε χρόνια, έχοντας το πλεονέκτημα της ζωής στην Πάφο, από μια πλευρά έκανα πολλές εκδρομές που με βοήθησαν να αφομοιώσω την πλούσια γεωγραφία της και από την άλλη πλευρά, ανακάλυψα αισθήσεις και άλλα μυστικά. Την ευχαρίστηση που ένοιωσα καθώς αναδυόταν μέσα μου η ιδέα του βιβλίου, θέλησα να τη μοιραστώ με όλους τους Κύπριους. 

Γυρίζοντας από σπίτι σε σπίτι, μαζέψαμε παλιές φωτογραφίες της Σταυροκόννου από τις αρχές του 1900 μέχρι τα τέλη της δεκαετίας του ’70, τις οποίες εκδίδω τώρα. Πόσο με στεναχώρησε, όταν σε μερικά σπίτια είδα φθαρμένες φωτογραφίες λόγω αμέλειας! Ίσως, βέβαια, να μη μπορούμε να φτιάξουμε ένα καινούργιο χωριό φυλάγοντας φωτογραφίες, όμως, γιατί να μην αποτελούν αυτές, τουλάχιστον, τα παρηγορητικά σύμβολα της νοσταλγικής ανάμνησης του παλιού χωριού.

Εδώ και χιλιάδες χρόνια, οι άνθρωποι ρωτούν ο ένας τον άλλο: «ποιος είσαι;». Ένα κομμάτι της δικής μου απάντησης βρίσκεται μέσα σ΄ αυτό το βιβλίο. Κοιτάζοντας το βιβλίο, ένοιωσα λες και είμαι κάποιος από τους παρευρισκόμενους σ΄ αυτά τα παλιά πανηγύρια που διοργάνωναν στη Σταυροκόννου όλοι μαζί, όσοι σήμερα έχουν πεθάνει και όσοι απομένουν.

Ως αποτέλεσμα αυτής της κοπιαστικής δουλειάς, που διήρκησε σχεδόν τέσσερα χρόνια, έχω μαζέψει στο αρχείο μου γύρω στια χίλιες φωτογραφίες. Στην επιλογή των φωτογραφιών που θα χρησιμοποιηθούν, έλαβα υπόψη την παλαιότητα, την ποικιλία, τον πλούτο του περιεχομένου και τις αισθητικές αξίες. Οι φωτογραφίες ταξινομήθηκαν κατά χρονολογική σειρά. Οι ημερομηνίες που αναγράφονται κάτω από τις φωτογραφίες, δηλώνουν και το πότε περίπου τραβήχτηκαν.

Θέλω να ευχαριστήσω, όσους κοπίασαν γι΄ αυτό το έργο και όλους τους Σταυροκοννιώτες που μοιράστηκαν μαζί μας τις φωτογραφίες που διέθεταν (αλλά ακόμη κι αυτούς που δεν θέλησαν να τις μοιραστούν). Ιδιαιτέρως, θέλω να ευχαριστήσω τους Gür Genç, Jenan Selçuk και Oya Akın, που με τα ποιήματα, τα πεζά και τις μεταφράσεις τους εμπλούτισαν το βιβλίο, τους Tanju Çetin, Faik Hasan και Sönmez Enver, που βοήθησαν στη συλλογή των φωτογραφιών. Αμέτρητες ευχαριστίες οφείλω επίσης στους: Aygün Mustafa, τη μητέρα μου Emine Hüseyin, τον πατέρα μου Kadir Adem, για την αμέριστη βοήθεια τους στην ανεύρεση ημερομηνιών και ονομάτων καθώς και στους Fuat Nesip, ιδιοκτήτη του Σούπερμάρκετ Cash & Carry Σταυροκόννου, Leni Photi, Ανδρέας Κωνσταντίνου και Pien Perre για τις επιχορηγήσεις τους. Ευχαριστώ τους Yasemin Nazli, Ευαγγελία Τσούρου και Νίκη Μαραγκού για την ελληνική μετάφραση, στον Dory Zgheib που έκανε το σχεδιασμό του βιβλίου. Επίσης οφείλω τις ευχαριστίες μου στο Χαράλαμπο Ιακώβου, Ρήνο Στεφανή και Στέφανο Στεφανίδη για τις πολύτιμες τους συμβουλές και τη βοήθεια τους. Και, φυσικά, σ΄ αυτούς που, τραβώντας αυτές τις φωτογραφίες, δεν άφησαν να χαθούν τα ίχνη του παρελθόντος, οφείλουμε όλοι μας ένα μεγάλο ευχαριστώ από καρδιάς.   

Στο μέλλον πιθανόν το βιβλίο να επανεκδοθεί. Εάν κάποιοι, που δεν μπορέσαμε να βρούμε στην πρώτη έκδοση, επιθυμούν να μας δώσουν έγγραφα και φωτογραφίες που διαθέτουν, ας επικοινωνήσουν μαζί μας στα τηλέφωνα: +357 99143052 και +9 0392 3777919 ή στην ηλεκτρονική διεύθυνση,  genchgench@yahoo.co.uk .

Αυτό το βιβλίο, που σμίκρυνε το κενό ανάμεσα στις ρίζες μου και τα φτερά μου, το αφιερώνω σε όλους τους Κύπριους που εκτοπίσθηκαν από τα μέρη τους.

Ergenc Mehmet Korkmazel

INTRODUCTION

There are certainly personal and also other reasons that created the necessity for me to publish such a book. Among these reasons we can initially list; the need to confront my personal history, to try to fill the moth eaten spaces of memory, to attempt to get rid of the unavoidable misunderstanding we have with our past as Stavrogonnians and Cypriots, to emphasise that Stavrogonno was once a village of the Paphos district where the most extraordinary Turkish Cypriots wandered in its streets, and to make an effort at slowing down the cruel influences of time and decay.

As we all know, migrations also bring disintegration. With migration, we may lose values that we had once inherited from those before us, values which had joined together over the years to become part of our identity, we may even become estranged to the love we felt for the place we had lived for centuries. One does not need to be a bird and fly in order to lead a meaningful life, sometimes it can be just as stimulating to embrace our roots, to embrace earth itself.

The village Stavrogonno was one of the largest and most populated settlements in the Paphos region. We need more than imagination to be able to catch a glimpse of the life style that was shaped by laws of nature, the characters that came to life on these wild mountain slopes. During my research, I came across such photographs that, I must confess I was afraid, afraid to realise the disconnection that had been caused between my present life and my near past due to ignorance. In this context, I can say that each photograph that came out of wooden valises and dusty albums has functioned like a little stone that has helped me once again build that long lost bridge. Alongside the enlightenment that they caused, the photographs I found came with their ever expanding stories, transforming my fear into curiosity. This was also the time that I started to feel the labour pains of the book.

I also wanted to share with all Cypriots, with the advantage of living in Paphos for the last five years, the great pleasure I felt while on one hand accumulating excursions that made it easier for me to absorb this generous geography and on the other, working on and blending the idea of the book with discoveries of the tastes and other secrets offered to me by its nature.

Among the photographs left behind from the Stavrogonnians, photographs that we have collected visiting almost every house, I am publishing the ones taken during the beginning of 1900, till the end of the 1970’s. Another issue that I feel I should underline is the sorrow I felt in some houses upon seeing badly worn out photographs, out of sheer indifference. By protecting and sharing photographs we may not be able to create a new village, but if this will at least revive the rememberance of the nostalgic images of our old village, then why not.

For thousands of years people have been asking each other who they are. Part of my answer lays in the content of this book. Looking through the book, I feel as if I am at one of the early traditional fairs that took place in Stavrogonno, everyone, the living and the dead all there together.

After approximately four years of this onerous research almost one thousand photographs have accumulated in my archive. When selecting the photographs that were to be used, I took into consideration criteria such as oldness, diversity, richness in content and aesthetical values. The photographs are arranged in chronological order. The dates written underneath indicate the approximate date of when the photograph was taken.

I would like to thank everyone who participated in this work, to all the Stavrogonnians who shared their photographs with us, even those who didn’t. Especially Gür Genç, Jenan Selçuk and Oya Akın, who with their poems, prose and translations made the book richer in content, to Tanju Çetin, Faik Hasan and Sönmez Enver who helped with collecting the photographs, to my mother Emine Hüseyin, my father Kadir Adem and Aygün Mustafa, who did not withhold their help in finding the dates and names, to Fuat Nesip, owner of Stavrogonno Cash & Carry Supermarket, Leni Photi, Andreas Costantinou and Pien Pere for their sponsorship; to Yasemin Nazlı, Evangelia Tsourou, Niki Marangou, Rinos Stefani for their translations into Greek; to Dorey Zgheib, who did the graphic design, and to Charalambos Iacovou and Stephanos Stephanidis for their help and advise.

And of course, we all owe sincere gratitude to all those, who with the photographs they took, have prevented the loss of the traces of the past.

I would like to dedicate this book, which has lessened the gap between my roots and wings, to all Cypriots who have been forced to migrate.

The book may be expanded in the future, so if there is anyone whom we couldn’t reach during this first edition who would like to share any documents and photographs they have, they are welcome to contact with us via e-mail genchgench@yahoo.co.uk or phone numbers +357 99143052 and +9 0392 3777919

Translated by Jenan Selçuk and Oya Akın.

Ergenc Mehmet Korkmazel

ANAHTAR

            Doğduğum köyün adı, başka hiçbir yerin çağrıştırmadığı kadar çok şey çağrıştırıyor bana. Oysa, topu topu 3 yıl yaşadım orada. Orasıyla ilgili anımsadıklarım: taşlık bir patika, bahar aylarında açan badem bahçelerinin beyazlığı ve köyün hemen kenarındaki evimizin yanındaki uçurum.

            Bundan daha fazlasını hatırlayabilmek için çok gayret sarfetim, ama olmuyor. Köyle ilgili hatırlayabildiklerimin hepsi bu. Ayrıca buna ekleyebileceğim birkaç kişisel anı kırıntım var... Gerisi, anlatılanlar. Anımsadığım o taşlı patika pek kısa kalıyor, nereye gittiği belli olmuyor, bükülüp bükülüp kayboluyor belleğimde.

            Stavrokonno hakkında bir sürü hikaye, tasvir ve anlatı dinledim onca yıldır. Notlar aldım. Şimdi bunları birleştirme, köyün öyküsünü yazma zamanı.

            Ülkemden binlerce kilometre uzaktayken insanın doğup büyüdüğü yerin önemini çok daha iyi anlıyorum. En nihayet durdum ya, dönüp geriye bakmaya ve geçmişimi, özellikle Güney’de geçirdiğim ilk 5 yılı hatırlama çalışmasına girişmeye fırsat buldum. Özellikle de bu ilk 5 yılla ilgili hatırlayabileceğim her şeyi, en değersiz gibi görünen ayrıntıları bile kazıp çıkarmak (katışıksız anımsama olmadığını da kabullenerek), kayıt etmek istiyorum.

            1975’de, Hüseyin Dedem evinden çıkarken, sorunlar bittikten sonra gene evine dönecekmiş gibi kapısını kapatıp kilitlemiş, anahtarı da cebine koymuş, hazır bekleyen konvoydaki bir otobüse binip Kuzey’e geçmiş. (Geri döneceklerine inanmayanlar ganimetçilere kalmasın diye evlerinin camlarını kırmış, ambarlardaki stoklarını ve ev eşyalarını yakmışlar. Konvoy köyden uzaklaşırken dönüp geriye bakanlar köyden yükselen siyah bir duman görmüşler.) Araya sınır çekilmiş ve bir daha evine dönememiş.

            Bu arada, kasabadaki bir nalbantın veya demircinin döktüğü bu iri ve hantal anahtar şimdi burada benimle, çalışma masamda, kağıtlar uçmasın diye ağırlık olarak kullanıyorum.           

            Nereye taşınırsam taşınayım hep yanımda götürüyorum bu anahtarı. Bir ayağı çukurda olan dedemin geri dönme umudu kalmadı artık. Belki bir gün ben dönerim diye evlatlarını atlayıp, en büyük torununa, yani bana geçti. Bu anahtar benim için, Stavrokonno’nun, çocukluğumun, bir yerde barışın, birleşmenin ve geri dönme umudunun simgesi.

            Güney’deki 5 yılın 3’ünü Stavrokonno’da, 2’sini ise Limasol’da geçirdim, sonra Kuzey’e göç etmek zorunda kaldık. Oraya dönersem her şeyi hatırlayacağım gibi bir yanılgı içinde değilim, ama birikmiş bir merak, özlem ve en azından bir şeyleri hatırlayabileceğim umudunu taşıyorum içimde.

            (Şu an durduğum yerden, hem Güney’i hem de Kuzey’i, Kıbrıs’ı bir bütün olarak özlüyorum aslında.) 

            En yoğun olarak göçmenlerin yaşadığı o nostomani* dürtüsüdür belki de...

            Bunca yıl sonra gidip görsem, köyün eski durumunun beynime işlenmiş hayali, bugünkü durumundan eksik çıkacağı konusunda emin değilim. Yine de, üzüm bağları ve badem bahçeleri içinde, damdan dama geçilerek bile dolaşılabilecek bir dağ köyü olarak tahayyül ettiğim bu yeri gidip görmek, havasını içime çekmek, yüzyıllardır akan pınarlarından içmek istiyorum.     

            ***

            ‘Stavros do Gonnu’dan geliyor köyün adı. Bizanslılar zamanında ‘Kutsal Haç’ adlı bir kilise varmış köyün yanında (kalıntıları duruyor hala). İlk yerleşimciler bu kilisenin yanına yerleşmiş. Ayrıca Venedik yazılarında, adı ‘Stavroconnu’ olarak geçiyor.

            Köylüler, nerelisin sorusuna cevap verirken, ‘Stavrokonno’ diye cevap verirler. Köyün Türkçe adı olan ‘Aydoğan’ın kullanıldığını pek duymadım.

            Yani eldeki verilere göre, köyde öncelikle Rumlar yaşıyormuş. Geriye kalan adlar ve izler bunu gösteriyor (Köydeki yerlerin adları – tepelerin, vadilerin, pınarların, ovaların, v.s-

hep Rumca. Hemen hemen bütün köylülerin adlarından fazla kullanılan lakapları da Rumca.)

            1571’den sonra Osmanlılar gelip yerleşmiş buraya veya köyde yaşayanlar zaman içinde din değiştirip müslüman olmuş.

            Rum ve Türkler, 1900’lü yılların başına kadar birlike yaşamışlar. Kimi söylentilere göre, her yıl düzenlenen panayır sırasında papazın oğlu kuyuya düşüp ölünce, köyü uğursuz ilan edip komşu köye, Celocara’ya göçmüşler. Bir başka söylentiyse, Türklerin onlara baskı yapması nedeniyle köyü terketmek zorunda kaldıklarını söylüyor.

            Sonuçta, Rumlar köyden ayrılmışlar, biri dışında. Köyün en güzel kızı olan Nuru’ya (Nuriye) gönlünü kaptıran (......) (eski adı kimse anımsamıyor) geride kalıp dinini değiştirme ve sünnet olma şartlarını kabul edip onunla evlenmiş (Dedemin dediğine göre, ne çan sesini ne de ezanı severdi). Adını da Yeni Ahmet olarak değiştirmiş (Ülker Nenemin babasının babasıydı.)

            Köydeki evler taştandı. 1953’de, üç kişinin ölümüyle sonuçlanan depremde yıkılan evlerin yerine devlet, baraka tipi evler yaptırmıştı (Osmanlı döneminden kalma mezarlığın üstüne). Son yıllarda da beton evler yapılmıştı. Üç, dört odayı geçmeyen bu elektriksiz ve susuz (su, mahalle çeşmelerinden taşınıyordu) evleri kimileri eşek, inek, keçi ve tavuk gibi hayvanlarla paylaşırdı.

            Ve 1950’li yılların sonuna kadar Stavrokonnolular çevre köylerde barış ve uyum içinde yaşamışlar. Derken sorunlar, gerilimler ve çatışmalar başlamış. Bu yıllarda, TMT’nin emriyle Amarget, Hulu ve Susuz gibi daha küçük Türk köyleri boşaltılmış, köylüler Stavrokonno’ya yerleşmişti.  

            1970’li yılların başında birkaç kez kuşatılmış, ama ele geçirilememiş. Onları, her seferinde kuşatmadan koruyan köyün stratejik konumu ve köylülerin cesareti değildi sadece, köyle ilgili efsanenin de payı vardı bunda kuşkusuz. Stavrokonnolular hala Baf kazasındaki düşmeyen tek köy olduklarından dolayı kendileriyle övünç duyarlar.  

            Çevre köylerde yaşayanlar, ‘zevk-i Stavrogonnidis’ diye tanımlarlar onları. Zevklerine ve eğlenceye düşkün oldukları bilinir. Yabancılara karşı çok konuksever, iyiliksever ve sevecendirler. Ama saf birini bulmasınlar, neredeyse bütün köylü bir olur onunla dalga geçer, alaya alır, eğlenirler. Alaycılıklarının yanında, hırçın ve röntgenci olarak bilinirler (bir seferinde yeni evli bir çifti dikizlemeye gelen gençler o kadar kalabalıkmış ki, yatak odası penceresi üzerindeki asma talvarı çökmüş.)       

            Yaşayanlar yanında, adlarını çok duyduğum, ben çocukken veya öncesinde ölen Stavrokonnolular’ı da düşünüyorum. Unutmayım, unutulmasınlar diye adlarını, soyadlarını, lakaplarını yazıp dosyalarda tutuyorum. Dönüp adlarını okuyunca onlarla ilgili anlatılanlar geliyor hemen aklıma. Bazen, yalnız kalınca oturup onların isimlerini ve bunlara ilişik olan lakaplarını sayıyorum. O zaman büyüdükçe büyüyor yüzümdeki gülümseme.

            Kıbrıs’ı ziyaret ettiğim zamanlarda, bazen birisi düşüyor aklıma, nerede olduğunu soruyorum, geçen yıl öldüğünü söylüyorlar. Gecikmiş bir üzüntü çöküyor içime. Veya ‘uzun zamandır görmediğim insanların öldüğünü unutuyorum.**’ Hatırlatılınca, onları özlediğimi farkediyorum... Bazen de, her nasılsa geçen yıl öldüğünü inandığım başka birini birden karşımda görünce, sevinçle sarılıyorum üstüne (bu uzaklıktan bazen zihnim oyun oynuyor bana.) Benim için, 1975’den beri görmediğim köyümün ruhu bu insanlarda yaşıyor. Onlar da yavaş yavaş ölünce, sanki köy ve ruhu da yitiyor. Ben yaşadığım sürece, bu insanların adları ve anıları da yaşamaya devam edecek benimle.

2000, Manchester

* Nostomani: Kişinin, çocukluğunu geçirdiği yere dönmek için duyduğu dürtüsel gereksinme.

** Elias Cannetti’nin ‘Ölüm Üzerine’ adlı kitabından.

ΤΟ ΚΛΕΙΔΙ

Το όνομα του χωριού που γεννήθηκα μου θυμίζει τόσα πολλά όσο κανένα άλλο μέρος. Και όμως έζησα εκεί όλα κι όλα τρία χρόνια. Οι αναμνήσεις μου: ένα λιθόστρωτο μονοπάτι, το λευκό από τις ανθισμένες ανοιξιάτικες αμυγδαλιές και ο γκρεμός πλάι στο σπίτι μας, ακριβώς στην άκρη του χωριού.

             

Προσπάθησα πολύ να θυμηθώ και άλλα εκτός από αυτά, μα δεν τα κατάφερα. Αυτά είναι όλα όσα μπορώ να θυμηθώ από το χωριό. Έχω βέβαια, μερικές αποσπασματικές προσωπικές αναμνήσεις...Τα υπόλοιπα είναι αυτά που ανέφερα. Το πέτρινο εκείνο μονοπάτι που θυμάμαι μου φαίνεται πολύ σύντομο, δεν ξέρω που οδηγεί, θολώνει και χάνεται από τη μνήμη μου.

Στα τόσα χρόνια άκουσα πολλές ιστορίες, περιγραφές και διηγήσεις σχετικά με τη Σταυροκόννου. Έπαιρνα σημειώσεις. Τώρα είναι η ώρα να τις ενώσω και να γράψω την ιστορία του χωριού.

Ζώντας χιλιάδες χιλιόμετρα μακριά από τη χώρα μου, συνειδητοποιώ πολύ καλύτερα τη σημασία που έχει για τον άνθρωπο, ο τόπος που γεννήθηκε και μεγάλωσε. Επιτέλους, μου δόθηκε η ευκαιρία, να στραφώ να κοιτάξω προς τα πίσω και να προσπαθώ να θυμηθώ το παρελθόν μου - ιδιαίτερα τα πέντε πρώτα χρόνια που πέρασα στο Νότο. Πιο συγκεκριμένα, θέλω να ανακαλέσω και να καταγράψω κάθε τι που μπορώ να θυμηθώ σχετικά με αυτά τα 5 χρόνια – ακόμη και λεπτομέρειες που φαίνονται ασήμαντες – (παραδεχόμενος, μάλιστα, ότι οι θύμησες μου δεν είναι ξεκάθαρες).

Το 1975, ο παππούς μου ο Hüseyin έφυγε από το σπίτι του και, λες και θα επέστρεφε όταν τέλειωναν οι φασαρίες, κλείδωσε την πόρτα, έβαλε το κλειδί στην τσέπη του και, αφού επιβιβάστηκε σε κάποιο από τα λεωφορεία του κομβόι που περίμενε, πήγε στο Βορρά. Όσοι δεν πίστευαν πως θα ξαναγυρίσουν, έσπασαν τα τζάμια των σπιτιών τους και έκαψαν τα αποθέματα τους και τα πράγματα του σπιτιού τους για να μη μείνουν στους πλιατσικολόγους. Καθώς το κομβόι απομακρυνόταν, όσοι κοίταζαν πίσω έβλεπαν ένα μαύρο σύννεφο καπνού να υψώνεται από το χωριό.) Οριοθετήθηκαν σύνορα και δεν μπόρεσε ποτέ να ξαναγυρίσει στο σπίτι του.      

Στο μεταξύ, για να μην πετάξουν τα χαρτιά μου, χρησιμοποιώ ως βαρίδι αυτό το τεράστιο και χοντροκομμένο κλειδί που έφτιαξε κάποιος πεταλωτής ή σιδεράς του χωριού και το έχω εδώ μαζί μου στο γραφείο μου.  

Όπου και να πάω κουβαλώ πάντα μαζί μου αυτό το κλειδί. Ο παππούς μου, που είναι με το ένα πόδι στον τάφο, δεν τρέφει πια την ελπίδα της επιστροφής. Η σκέψη «ίσως μια μέρα γυρίσω εγώ», προσπερνώντας τα παιδιά του, πέρασε στο μεγαλύτερο εγγόνι του, δηλαδή σ΄ εμένα. Τούτο το κλειδί είναι για μένα το σύμβολο της ελπίδας για ειρήνη, επανένωση και επιστροφή στη Σταυροκόννου της παιδικής μου ηλικίας.

Από τα πέντε χρόνια στο Νότο, τα 3 τα πέρασα στη Σταυροκόννου και τα άλλα 2 στη Λεμεσό. Μετά αναγκαστήκαμε να καταφύγουμε στο Βορρά. Δεν ζω με την πλάνη, ότι αν γυρίσω εκεί όλα θα είναι όπως τα θυμάμαι, όμως υπάρχει μέσα μου μια συσσωρευμένη λαχτάρα, η νοσταλγία και η ελπίδα, ότι θα μπορέσω να θυμηθώ τουλάχιστον κάποια πράγματα.

(Για την ακρίβεια, στον τόπο που βρίσκομαι τώρα, νοσταλγώ την Κύπρο σαν ένα σύνολο  Βορρά και Νότου.)

Ίσως, μάλιστα, το πιο έντονο συναίσθημα που βιώνουν οι πρόσφυγες να είναι αυτός ο νόστος*...

Είμαι σίγουρος, ότι εάν πάω να δω, μετά από τόσα χρόνια, η εικόνα του χωριού που έχω στο μυαλό μου, θα είναι πολύ διαφορετική από τη σημερινή του κατάσταση. Παρόλα, αυτά όμως, θέλω να πάω να δω αυτόν τον τόπο που τον οραματίζομαι σαν ορεινό χωριό, με χαμηλές στέγες, μέσα στα αμπέλια και τις αμυγδαλιές. Θέλω να ανασάνω τον αέρα του και να πιω από τις αιωνόβιες πηγές του.

                                                          ***

Το όνομα του χωριού προέρχεται από το “Stavros do Gonnu”. Τη βυζαντινή εποχή, υπήρχε δίπλα στο χωριό μια εκκλησία με το όνομα «Ιερός Σταυρός» (τα ερείπια της σώζονται ακόμη). Στις ενετικές καταγραφές, μάλιστα, αναφέρεται με το όνομα “Stavroconnu” .       

Οι χωριανοί, όταν τους ρωτούν «από πού είσαι:», απαντούν «Σταυροκόννου». Ποτέ δεν άκουσα να χρησιμοποιούν το τουρκικό όνομα του χωριού: Aydoğan.

Σύμφωνα με τις υπάρχουσες πληροφορίες, στο χωριό κατοικούσαν πρώτα Έλληνες. Αυτό δείχνουν τα ονόματα και τα ερείπια που έμειναν πίσω. (Τα τοπωνύμια του χωριού – τα ονόματα των λόφων, των κοιλάδων, των πηγών, των πεδιάδων, κλπ. όλα είναι ελληνικά. Ακόμη και τα περισσότερα παρατσούκλια των κατοίκων του χωριού είναι ελληνικά.)

Οι Οθωμανοί που ήρθαν μετά το 1571 κατοίκησαν εδώ, είτε οι χωριανοί με την πάροδο του χρόνου άλλαξαν θρησκεία και έγιναν μουσουλμάνοι.

Έλληνες και Τούρκοι, μέχρι τις αρχές του 1900 ζούσαν μαζί. Σύμφωνα με κάποιες διηγήσεις, μια χρονιά, στο ετήσιο πανηγύρι, ο γιος του παπά έπεσε στο πηγάδι και πνίγηκε. Έτσι, βγήκε η φήμη ότι το χωριό ήταν γουρσούζικο και μετοίκησαν στο γειτονικό χωριό, τα Κελοκέδαρα. Σύμφωνα με μια άλλη παράδοση, πάλι, επειδή οι Τούρκοι τους καταπίεζαν, αναγκάστηκαν να εγκαταλείψουν το χωριό.

Τελικά οι Έλληνες έφυγαν από το χωριό, εκτός από έναν. Ήταν εκείνος που την καρδιά του σκλάβωσε η ομορφότερη κοπέλα του χωριού, η Nuru (Nuriye). Έμεινε πίσω και, αφού δέχτηκε τους όρους να αλλάξει θρησκεία και να κάνει περιτομή, παντρεύτηκε μαζί της. Επίσης άλλαξε το όνομα του σε Yeni Ahmet (κανείς δε θυμάται το παλιό του όνομα). Καθώς έλεγε ο παππούς μου, δεν του άρεσε ούτε ο ήχος της καμπάνας ούτε και το κάλεσμα του μουεζίνη. (Ήταν ο πατέρας του πατέρα της γιαγιάς μου της Ülker).

Τα σπίτια του χωριού ήταν από πέτρα. Το 1953, μετά από ένα σεισμό που είχε ως αποτέλεσμα το θάνατο τριών ατόμων, στη θέση των σπιτιών που γκρεμίστηκαν, το κράτος έφτιαξε κάτι σπίτια σαν παράγκες. (πάνω από το νεκροταφείο που έμενε από την Οθωμανική εποχή). Τα τελευταία χρόνια κτίστηκαν σπίτια από μπετόν. Αυτά τα σπίτια που δεν είχαν πάνω από τρία, τέσσερα δωμάτια και δεν είχαν ηλεκτρισμό ούτε νερό (το νερό μεταφερόταν από τις βρύσες του χωριού),  μερικοί τα μοιράζονταν με τα ζώα, γαϊδούρια, αγελάδες, κατσίκες και κότες. 

             Μέχρι το τέλος της δεκαετίας του ΄50, οι Σταυροκοννιώτες ζούσαν μέσα σε ειρήνη και αρμονία με τα γειτονικά χωριά. Τότε ξεκίνησαν τα προβλήματα, οι εντάσεις και τα επεισόδια. Εκείνα την εποχή, με διαταγή της ΤΜΤ, η Αμαργέτη, η Χούλου και κάποια άλλα μικρά τουρκικά χωριά εκκενώθηκαν και οι κάτοικοι τους εγκαταστάθηκαν στη Σταυροκόννου.  

Στις αρχές της δεκαετίας του ΄70, πολιορκήθηκε μερικές φορές, όμως δεν καταπατήθηκε. Κάθε φορά, οι λόγοι δεν ήταν μόνο η στρατηγική στάση προστασίας του χωριού και το θάρρος των κατοίκων: αναμφίβολα έπαιξε ρόλο και η παράδοση σχετικά με το χωριό. Οι χωριανοί αισθάνονται περήφανοι που η Σταυροκόννου είναι το μόνο απόρθητο χωριό στην Επαρχία Πάφου.

                       

Οι κάτοικοι των γύρω χωριών, τους χαρακτηρίζουν «zevk-i Stavrogonnidis» ***. Είναι γνωστό, ότι αγαπούν το κέφι και το γλέντι. Είναι πολύ φιλόξενοι, καλοσυνάτοι και συμπονετικοί. Όταν όμως βρουν κάποιον αγαθιάρη, όλοι σχεδόν οι χωριανοί γίνονται ένα, τον περιπαίζουν, του κάνουν πλάκα, διασκεδάζουν μαζί του. Μαζί με το περίπαιγμά τους, χαρακτηρίζονται ως δύστροποι και ματάκηδες. (Μια φορά, οι νέοι ήταν τόσο πολύ που ήρθαν για μπάνισμα στο σπίτι ενός νιόπαντρου ζευγαριού ότι έπεσε η κρεβατίνα που βρισκόταν πάνω στο παράθυρο του υπνοδωματίου.)

Εκτός από τους ζωντανούς, σκέφτομαι και τα ονόματα που άκουσα, εκείνων που πέθαναν όταν ήμουν παιδί ή ακόμη πιο πριν. Για να μην ξεχάσω, για να μην ξεχαστούν κρατάω τα ονόματα, τα επίθετα και τα παρατσούκλια τους, γράφοντας τα σε τετράδια. Κάθε φορά που διαβάζω τα ονόματα τους, έρχονται αμέσως στο μυαλό οι διηγήσεις που άκουσα γι΄ αυτούς. Κάποτε, σαν κάθομαι μόνος, συλλογίζομαι τα ονόματα τους και τα παρατσούκλια που τους κόλλησαν. Τότε το χαμόγελο στο πρόσωπο μου μεγαλώνει ολοένα.

            Όταν επισκέπτομαι την Κύπρο, έρχεται κάποτε κάποιος στο μυαλό μου, ρωτάω πού είναι και μου λένε ότι πέθανε τον περασμένο χρόνο. Τότε με καταλαμβάνει μια αναδρομική θλίψη. Ή: «οι άνθρωποι που δεν έβλεπα για πολύ καιρό, ξεχνάω ότι έχουν πεθάνει.**». Όταν μου το θυμίζουν, συνειδητοποιώ ότι μου λείπουν...Καμιά φορά, μάλιστα, όταν συναντώ ξαφνικά κάποιον, που νόμιζα ότι θα είχε πεθάνει τον περασμένο χρόνο, τον αγκαλιάζω με ενθουσιασμό (μερικές φορές, λόγω αυτής της απόστασης, το μυαλό μου, μου σκαρώνει παιγνίδια). Για μένα, η ψυχή του χωριού μου, που δεν το είδα από το 1975, ζει μέσα σ΄ αυτούς τους ανθρώπους. Πεθαίνοντας αυτοί σιγά – σιγά, είναι σαν να χάνεται το χωριό και η ψυχή του. Όσο ζω εγώ, οι άνθρωποι αυτοί και τα ονόματα τους, θα συνεχίσουν να ζουν μαζί μου.

2000, Manchester

*Νόστος: ο διακαής πόθος που αισθάνεται κάποιος για επιστροφή στον τόπο που πέρασε τα παιδικά του χρόνια.

**Από το βιβλίο του Ηλία Κανέττι «Σχετικά με το Θάνατο». 

***(Σ.τ.μ.) «Κεφάτος Σταυροκοννιώτης»

            THE KEY

            The name of the village I was born in, reminds me of many things that no other place has reminded me of. Whereas, I have lived there all in all for 3 years. The things I recall about it: a stony path, the whiteness of the blossoming almond trees in spring and the cliff next to our house at the edge of the village.

            I have tried my hardest to remember more, with no avail. This is all I remember about the village. Also I have a few personal memory fragments I can add to this... The rest, is what has been told to me. The stony path I recall remains extremely short, it is not clear where it leads, it twists and turns and gets lost in my memory.

            For many years I have listened to many stories, descriptions and narrations about Stavrogonno. I have taken notes. Now, it is time to put them together and write a short-story of the village.   

            Being thousands of kilometers away from my country, I understand much better the importance of the place a person was born and brought up in. Now that I have finally stopped, I have found a chance to look back and attempt to try to remember my past, especially the first 5 years I spent in the South. Especially of these first 5 years, I want to dig out and remember everything I can, even the most trivial details (excepting that no remembrance is truely unadulterated) and record them.

            In 1975, my grandfather Hüseyin came out of his house, locked the door and put the key in his pocket, as if to return to his house after the troubles had ended. He boarded an awaiting bus in the convoy and passed to the North. (Those who did not believe they would return, broke the windows of their houses, burnt the stock in their cellars and furniture so nothing would remain for the looters. As the convoy left behind the village those who turned back to look saw a black cloud of smoke rising from the village.) A border was built inbetween and he never managed to return to his home.

            By the way, this large and unwieldy key that a blacksmith or ironworker in the town cast is here with me, on my desk, I use it as a weight so that my pages don’t fly away.        

            Wherever I move I always take this key with me. My grandfather with one foot in the grave has no hope of returning now. Just so maybe I will, it has skipped his children and passed on to me, his eldest grandson. This key to me, is a symbol of Stavrogonno, my childhood, actually of peace, of uniting and the hope of returning.

            Of my 5 years in the South, I have spent 3 in Stavrogonno, and 2 in Limassol, then we were forced to immigrate to the North. I am not in an illusion that if I were to return there I will remember everything, however I carry the longing, the accumulated curiousity and hope that I might at least remember something. 

            (From where I stand now, I actually miss both the South and the North, Cyprus as a whole.)        

            Maybe it’s that nostomania* impulse, experienced most intensely by immigrants...

            If after so many years I go and see, I’m not sure that the image of the village’s old condition engraved in my brain will fall short of its condition today. But still, I want to visit this place that I imagine amongst vineyards and almond gardens, this mountain village that can be wandered passing from one rooftop to another, I want to breathe in its air and drink from its springs that have been flowing from centuries.    

            ***

            The name of the village comes from ‘Stavros do Gonnu’. During the period of the Byzantines there was a church called the ‘Holy Cross’ next to the village (its remains are still there). The first settlers settled next to this church. Also, in Venetian inscriptions its name is referred to as ‘Stavroconnu’.

            The villagers when answering the question of where they are from, answer ‘Stavrogonno’. I have not heard the village’s Turkish name ‘Aydoğan’ used often.

            So, according to the data we have, Greek Cypriots were the first to live in the village. The names and traces left behind show this (The names of the places in the village –the hills, valleys, springs, plains etc. – are all Greek. Nearly all of the nicknames of the villagers, used more than their names are also Greek.)

            After 1571 the Ottomans came and settled here or in time those living in the village converted to Islam.

            The Greek and Turkish Cypriots lived together until the beginning of the 1900s. According to a rumour, after the priest’s son fell into a well and died during the annually organised fair, the village was considered ill-omened and they migrated to the neighbouring village, Kelokedara. Another rumour is that they were forced to leave the village under the pressure of the Turks.

            In the end, the Greek Cypriots left the village, except one. (......) (nobody remembers the old name) who fell in love with Nuru (Nuriye) the village’s most beautiful girl, stayed behind and accepting the conditions of changing his religion and circumcision married her (From what my grandfather says, he liked neither the sound of bells nor the azan.) And he changed his name to Yeni (New) Ahmet (He was the father’s father of my grandmother Ülker.)

            The houses in the village were made of stone. In 1953, following the earthquake that resulted with the death of three people, the government had shed type houses made (Upon the graveyard remaining from the Ottoman period). In the recent years concrete houses were made too. These houses with no electricity and water (water was carried from the neighbourhood fountain), that were not more than three or four rooms were shared sometimes with animals like donkeys, cows, goats and chicken.

            And until the end of the 1950s, the people of Stavrogonno lived in peace and harmony with the neighbouring villages. Then the troubles, tension and fighting stared. In these years, with the order of TMT smaller Turkish villages like Amargeti, Choulou and Susuz were emptied and the villagers moved to Stavrogonno.  

            At the beginning of the 1970s it was sieged a few times, but not captured. It wasn’t only the strategical location of the village and the courage of the villagers that protected them every time from the siege, the legend about the village also undoubtedly played a part in this. The people of Stavrogonno still feel proud of themselves due to being the only village in the Paphos area that did not fall.     

            Those living in neighbouring villages describe them as ‘zevk-i Stavrogonnidis’ (pleasure-loving people of Stavrogonno). They are known to be passionate for pleasure and entertainment. To strangers, they are very hospitable, kind and tender. But when they encounter somebody gullible, nearly the whole village unites to make fun of them, ridicule them for fun. Alongside their scornfulness, they are known to be ill-tempered and be peeping Toms (once a group of youngsters who went to peep on a newlywed couple were so crowded that the grapevine infront of the bedroom window collapsed.)  

            Alongside those living, I also think about the people of Stavrogonnu, whose name I have heard alot, who have died while I was still a child or before. So that I will not forget, so that they will not be forgotten, I write and keep their names, surnames and nicknames in files. When I go back and read their names I immediately remember things that have been told to me about them. Sometimes, when alone I sit and recount their names and the nicknames attached to them. Then, the smile on my face gets wider and wider.

            On the times I visit Cyprus, I suddenly remember somebody, I ask where they are, they tell me he/she has passed away last year. A delayed sadness sinks down inside me. Or ‘I forget the death of the people I haven’t seen for some time.**’ When reminded, I notice that I have missed them... And sometimes, when I suddenly come face to face with somebody I believed had died last year, I embrace them with joy (at this distance sometimes my mind plays tricks on me.) For me, the spirit of my village that I haven’t seen since 1975 lives within these people. As they slowly die, it is as if the village and its spirit are vanishing too. As long as I live, the names and memories of these people will continue to live on, with me.

2000, Manchester

*Nostomania: The impulsive need a person feels to return to the place of his/her childhood.

** From Elias Cannetti’s book ‘On Death’.                       

Translated by Oya Akın.

UÇURUMUN KENARINDAKİ KÖY

            Stavrokonno’dan ayrılmamızın üstünden 34 yıl geçti. 34 uzun yıl boyunca bıkmadan usanmadan doğaüstü bir masal dinlermiş gibi hikayesini dinledik, dinliyoruz köyün.

            29 yıl boyunca  hayal gücümü besleyen, doğum yerim olan bu köyü, ancak 2003’de sınır kapıları açılmadan birkaç ay önce şair dostum Jenan Selçuk’la kaçak olarak sınırı geçip görmeye gittik... Apandisit ameliyatından yeni kalkmama rağmen gittim. O güne kadar yaptığım en duygusal, en ağrılı yolculuktu.

            Choletria’yı geçtikten sonra, doğduğum köyü karşımda görünce birden ne ağladım ne de güldüm, tıkanıp kaldım sadece.  

            Belleğime fazla güveniyordum, evi görünce hemen hatırlayacağımı sanıyordum. Köye girmenin sersemliği ve baş dönmesiyle yanlış sokağa saptım, çoğu evler birbirine benziyordu, aklım karıştı, doğduğum evi bulamadım. Ama, anlatılanların haritasıyla Nenemlerin evini buldum – daha doğrusu evin eskiden durduğu yeri. Avludaki iki badem ağacı bile gitmişti. Sadece birkaç taş parçası kalmıştı geriye. Köyün alt kısmındaki baraj yapılırken, köydeki çoğu evleri yıkıp taşlarını kullanmışlardı.

            İyi o anahtarı getirmemiştim yanımda! Yerinde olmayan bir evin önünde koca bir anahtarla durmak komik olacaktı.

           

            Bu arada okul kiliseye dönüştürülmüş. Cami (ki Cem Evine benziyor daha fazla) kapalı, güvercinler yuvalıyor şimdi orada.

            Açıkçası biz ayrılırken köy ne durumdaydı hatırlamıyordum (5 yaşındaydım). Ama yıllarca en başta ailem ve bütün köylüler o kadar çok anlattılar ki bu yeri efsanevi bir mekan haline gelmişti benim için. En sonunda oraya gidince hayalimde canlandırdığım gibi bulmadım onu, hayal kırıklığına uğradım ilkin. Tabii ki, hemen hemen adadaki her yerleşim yeri gibi, terkedildiği gibi kalmadı. Hiç değişmeden olduğu gibi kalması nasıl beklenebilirdi ki... Köyün karakterini oluşturan taş evlerin nerdeyse hepsi yıktırılmış, taşlar baraj yapımında kullanmıştı. Zaman içinde bazı bağ ve bahçeler de kurumuştu. Köyün turistik ve ticari bir önemi olmadığı için geriye kalan evler de, Rum göçmenler tarafından pek tercih edilmemişti.

            Kapılar açıldıktan sonraki ziyaretimde, Anne babamla birlikte gittiğimde, göstermişlerdi evimizi. Dikdörtgen biçiminde, üç odadan oluşan küçük bir yapıydı. Aynı zamanda banyo olarak kullanılan tuvaleti evin dışındaydı. Fidan olarak bıraktıklarımız arasından sadece portakal ağaç olmuştu. Evin yeni sahibi, karısından ayrılmış, köpeğiyle birlikte yaşayan, konuşmayı pek sevmeyen, upuzun sakallı orta yaşlı bir münzeviydi.

            Kimi göçmenler sınırın diğer tarafında bıraktıkları evleri (beton yığınları) için neden bu kadar yaygara yapıyorlar, fanatik bir tutum sergiliyorlar anlayamıyorum doğrusu.     

             

            ***     

            Sınır kapılarının açılmasının, karşılıklı geçişlerin üzerinden 5 yıl geçti.

            Baf bölgesinin en çetin, en vahşi yerlerinden birisi olan köy hala orada, uçurumun kenarında. Potamas ile Diyarizo dereleri arasında kalan verimli toprakların ortasındaki tepelerin üzerinde bir kartal yuvası gibi duruyor. Bir tarafında kırmızı topraklı, öbür tarafındaysa beyaz topraklı ovalar uzanıyor. Köye ait ovaların çoğu taşlı ve engebeli, çiftçilik yapmaya pek elverişli değil (bağlar ve badem bahçelerinden önce zeytinlikti buralar.)   

            Geriye kalan üzüm bağlarının ve badem bahçelerinin çoğu bakımsız. Suyu azalsa da Asbromya, Sakri, Mersini, Eski Çeşme, Zavra, Mitrigu ve Golemona adlı o eski pınarlar akmaya devam ediyor hala.   

            İstediğimiz zaman gidip ziyaret edebiliyoruz köyü (kardeşim Ergenç, sınır kapıları açıldığından beri Baf’da yaşadığı için en azından ayda bir gidiyoruz), ama Stavrokonno’yu Stavrokonno yapan köylüler artık orada yaşamıyor, çoğu hayatta bile değil. Hem, o eski yaşam tarzı da kalmadı artık.  

            Belki köyün kendisi orada, fakat Stavrokonnolular’ın büyük bir kısmı burada,  yerleştikleri köy olan Lisi’de (Akdoğan). Geçmişte kalan o köy onlarla soluk alıyor, onlarla yaşıyor. Köyün öyküsünü anlatmayı sürdürüyorlar. Köyü onlardan dinleyerek öğreniyorum. Onlar yaşatıyor bana orayı. Ve şimdiki halini görsem de, köylülerin anlattığı hikayeler nedeniyle, benim için orası, henüz paganist çağlardan çıkmamış, birtakım yeraltı labirentleriyle, mistik mağaralarla, doğaüstü yaratıklarla dolu mitolojik bir yer.

            Bir köyü oluşturan sadece yapılar ve içinde yaşayan insanlar değildir, aynı zamanda doğadır – yani, ovalar, vadiler, tepeler, pınarlar, ağaçlar, v.s’dir. Şimdi köye gittiğimizde, geriye kalan evlerle değil de (evlerin yeni sahipleri, bizim orada oturduğumuzdan daha uzun süre oturmuşlar orada, daha çok anı biriktirmişler) bunlarla ilgileniyoruz artık. Bana öyle geliyor ki bilmem-kaç-yıl orada yaşamış atalarım, evlerden, hatta mezarlıktan çok toprakta, ağaçlarda ve köyü çevreleyen o vahşi manzarada yaşıyor.  

           

            Nerden gelinirse gelinsin, oraya varmak için dik bir yokuş çıkılan bu köye girerken dereotu, tülümbe ve mevsimine göre çiçek kokuları karşılar bizi. Oraya her gittiğimizde, aynı noktalarda aynı hikayeleri tekrar tekrar anlatır annemle babam. Her seferinde başka bir haz duyarım onları dinlerken ve her ziyarette yeni ayrıntılar keşfederim köy hakkında.

            Köyün içinde dikilen, geceleri 22 köyün ışıklarının görülebileceği Betrono Tepesi’ne çıkıp da manzaraya bakınca soluğum kesiliyor hala.

            Daha önceleri köye gidemediğim zamanlar adı hep şiir çağrıştırırdı bana, şimdi ise burada yaşamış olan insanların öyküleri uğulduyor kafamda. Ve bütün o öyküleri yazmazsam dinmeyecek bu uğultu.

2008, Lisi-Lefkoşa         

ΤΟ ΧΩΡΙΟ ΣΤΗΝ ΑΚΡΗ ΤΟΥ ΓΚΡΕΜΟΥ

           

Πέρασαν 34 χρόνια από τότε που φύγαμε από τη Σταυροκόννου. Για 34 χρόνια, χωρίς να βαρεθούμε, ακούραστα ακούγαμε και ακούμε την ιστορία του χωριού, λες και ακούμε ένα μαγικό παραμύθι.

            Αυτό το χωριό που γεννήθηκα και που για 29 ολόκληρα χρόνια έτρεφε τη φαντασία μου, το είδα ξανά μόλις το 2003: λίγους μήνες πριν ανοίξουν τα οδοφράγματα, περάσαμε παράνομα με τον φίλο μου, τον ποιητή Jenan Selçuk και πήγαμε να το δούμε...Πήγα, παρόλο που μόλις είχα σηκωθεί από εγχείρηση σκωληκοειδίτιδας. Ήταν το πιο συγκινητικό, το πιο πονεμένο ταξίδι που είχα κάνει μέχρι τότε.   

Αφού περάσαμε τα Χολέτρια, μόλις είδα απέναντι μου το χωριό που γεννήθηκα, ούτε έκλαψα ούτε γέλασα, μονάχα έμεινα αποσβολωμένος.

Είχα εμπιστευτεί υπερβολικά τη μνήμη μου και νόμιζα ότι μόλις έβλεπα το σπίτι θα το αναγνώριζα. Μπαίνοντας στο χωριό, από την ταραχή και τη ζάλη, έστριψα σε λάθος δρόμο. Τα περισσότερα σπίτια έμοιαζαν μεταξύ τους, μπερδεύτηκα και δεν μπόρεσα να βρω το σπίτι που γεννήθηκα. Όμως, με το χάρτη και τις περιγραφές, βρήκα το σπίτι των παππούδων μου – για την ακρίβεια, το μέρος όπου βρισκόταν παλιά το σπίτι. Ακόμη και οι δύο αμυγδαλιές που υπήρχαν στην αυλή του, είχαν εξαφανιστεί. Μονάχα μερικές πέτρες είχαν απομείνει εκεί. Τα περισσότερα σπίτια είχαν γκρεμιστεί για να χρησιμοποιηθούν οι πέτρες τους στο φράγμα στο κάτω μέρος του χωριού.

Ευτυχώς που δεν έφερα μαζί μου εκείνο το κλειδί! Θα ήταν γελοίο, να έχω ένα τεράστιο κλειδί για ένα σπίτι που δεν υπάρχει πια!

Στο μεταξύ, το σχολείο είχε μετατραπεί σε εκκλησία. Το τζαμί (που έμοιαζε περισσότερο με Τόπο Συναθροίσεως) ήταν κλειστό και φώλιαζαν εκεί περιστέρια.            

Η αλήθεια είναι, ότι δεν θυμόμουν, σε ποια κατάσταση ήταν το χωριό όταν φύγαμε (ήμουν 5 χρονών). Όμως, για χρόνια ολόκληρα, κατά πρώτον, η οικογένεια μου και όλοι οι χωριανοί μου διηγούνταν τόσα πολλά, που για μένα αυτός ο τόπος μετατράπηκε σε μυθικό χώρο. Όταν τελικά πήγα, και δεν το βρήκα όπως το είχα αναπαραστήσει στη φαντασία μου, η πρώτη μου αντίδραση ήταν η απογοήτευση. Φυσικά, όπως και κάθε μέρος που εποικίστηκε στο νησί, δεν έμεινε όπως αφέθηκε. Και πώς θα ήταν δυνατό να μείνει απαράλλακτο όπως ήταν...Τα χαρακτηριστικά πέτρινα σπίτια του χωριού είχαν σχεδόν όλα γκρεμιστεί και οι πέτρες τους χρησιμοποιήθηκαν στην κατασκευή του φράγματος. Με την πάροδο του χρόνου μερικά αμπέλια και περιβόλια ξεράθηκαν. Τα δε σπίτια που απέμειναν, δεν τα προτιμούσαν οι ελληνοκύπριοι πρόσφυγες, επειδή το χωριό δεν είχε εμπορική και τουριστική σημασία.

             

Στην μετέπειτα επίσκεψη μου, όταν άνοιξαν τα οδοφράγματα, πήγα με τους γονείς μου, οι οποίοι μου έδειξαν το σπίτι μας. Ήταν ένα μικρό κτίσμα, σε ορθογώνιο σχήμα, αποτελούμενο από τρία δωμάτια. Η τουαλέτα, που εκτελούσε συγχρόνως και χρέη μπάνιου, ήταν έξω από το σπίτι. Από τα δενδράκια που είχαμε φυτέψει μόλις πριν φύγουμε, υπήρχαν μόνο πορτοκαλιές. Ο καινούργιος ιδιοκτήτης του σπιτιού, ήταν ένας λιγομίλητος ερημίτης με μακριά γενειάδα, είχε χωρίσει από τη γυναίκα του και ζούσε με το σκυλί του.           

Μα την αλήθεια, δεν μπορώ να καταλάβω, γιατί ορισμένοι πρόσφυγες κάνουν τόση φασαρία και κρατούν φανατική στάση για τα σπίτια (σωρούς από μπετόν) που άφησαν στην άλλη πλευρά.

            ***     

             

Έχουν περάσει 5 χρόνια από το άνοιγμα των οδοφραγμάτων και τις εκατέρωθεν διελεύσεις.

Ένα χωριό, από τα πιο τραχιά και άγρια μέρη της επαρχίας Πάφου, είναι ακόμη εκεί, στην άκρη του γκρεμού. Στέκει σαν αετοφωλιά, πάνω στους λόφους στα γόνιμα χώματα ανάμεσα στους ποταμούς Διαρίζο και Ποταμά. Από τη μία πλευρά απλώνονται πεδιάδες με κοκκινόχωμα, ενώ από την άλλη υπάρχουν πεδιάδες με άσπρο χώμα. Στις περισσότερες πεδιάδες του χωριού το έδαφος είναι πετρώδες και ανώμαλο, δεν είναι και πολύ πρόσφορο για τη γεωργία (πριν από τα αμπέλια και τις αμυγδαλιές υπήρχαν εκεί ελαιώνες.   

Τα αμπέλια και οι αμυγδαλιές είναι, ως επί το πλείστον, αφρόντιστα. Οι παλιές πηγές Ασπρόμια, Σακρή, Μερσίνη, Παλιόβρυση, Ζάβρα, Μιτρίγου και Γκολεμόνα ακόμα τρέχουν κι ας είναι το νερό τους λιγότερο.

Μπορούμε να επισκεφτούμε το χωριό όποτε θέλουμε (επειδή ο αδελφός μου ο Ergenç κατοικεί στην Πάφο από τότε που άνοιξαν τα οδοφράγματα, πάμε τουλάχιστον μια φορά το μήνα), όμως οι χωριανοί που αποτελούσαν τη Σταυροκόννου δεν ζουν πια εκεί, οι περισσότεροι μάλιστα, δεν βρίσκονται πια στη ζωή. Δεν απομένει πια, ούτε εκείνος ο παλιός τρόπος ζωής.

Μπορεί το ίδιο το χωριό να βρίσκεται ακόμη εκεί, όμως μεγάλο μέρος των Σταυροκοννιωτών έχουν εγκατασταθεί στο χωριό Λύση (Akdoğan). Εκείνο το χωριό, που έμεινε στο παρελθόν, παίρνει ανάσα από αυτούς, ζει χάρη σ΄ αυτούς. Συνεχίζουν να διηγούνται την ιστορία του χωριού. Εγώ μαθαίνω το χωριό από εκείνους. Αυτοί το κάνουν για μένα ζωντανό. Έστω κι αν βλέπω πώς είναι σήμερα, με τις ιστορίες που διηγούνται οι παλιοί, είναι, ακόμα, για μένα, ένα μυθικό μέρος που δεν ξέφυγε από την παγανιστική εποχή, γεμάτο από υπόγειους λαβύρινθους, μυστικές σπηλιές και μεταφυσικά όντα.

             

Ένα χωριό δεν αποτελείται μόνο από τα κτίσματα και τους κατοίκους του, αλλά, συγχρόνως και από τη φύση – δηλαδή, τις πεδιάδες, τις κοιλάδες, τους λόφους, τις πηγές, τα δένδρα κλπ. Τώρα, όταν πηγαίνουμε στο χωριό, ασχολούμαστε πια με αυτά και όχι με τα σπίτια που απέμειναν (άλλωστε οι καινούργιοι ιδιοκτήτες, κατοικούν εκεί για περισσότερο καιρό από μας και έχουν μαζέψει περισσότερες αναμνήσεις). Έχω την εντύπωση, ότι οι πρόγονοι μου, που δεν ξέρω κι εγώ από πόσα χρόνια πίσω ζούσαν εκεί, υπάρχουν περισσότερο στη γη, στα δένδρα και στο άγριο τοπίο που περιβάλλει το χωριό, παρά στα σπίτια ή και στο κοιμητήριο.

           

Από όπου κι αν έρχονται, μπαίνοντας στο χωριό από το απότομο ανήφορο που οδηγεί εκεί, μας υποδέχονται ευωδιές από άνηθο και λουλούδια της εποχής. Όποτε πάμε, περνώντας από τα ίδια σημεία, η μητέρα και ο πατέρας μου διηγούνται ξανά και ξανά τις ίδιες ιστορίες. Κάθε φορά, ακούγοντας τους νοιώθω καινούργια ευχαρίστηση και σε κάθε επίσκεψη ανακαλύπτω νέες λεπτομέρειες για το χωριό.

Τα βράδια στο χωριό, όταν ανεβαίνω στο Λόφο Betrono, μπορώ να δω τα φώτα των γύρω χωριών και η θέα μου κόβει πάντα την ανάσα.     

Παλιότερα, όταν δεν μπορούσα να πάω στο χωριό, το όνομα του μου ακουγόταν σαν ποίημα, και τώρα, οι ιστορίες των ανθρώπων που έζησαν εδώ βουίζουν στο κεφάλι μου. Και αν δεν γράψω όλες αυτές τις ιστορίες, το βουητό αυτό δεν θα κοπάσει.

2008, Λύση – Λευκωσία  

THE VILLAGE AT THE EDGE OF THE CLIFF

            34 years have passed since we left Stavrogonno. For 34 long years we have been listening, we are still listening to the story of the village, as if listening to a supernatural fairy tale.

            We went to visit this village, my birth place that has been nurturing my imagination for 29 years only in 2003, a few months before the borders opened, passing the border as stowaways with my poet friend Jenan Selçuk... I went even though I was still recovering from an appendectomy. It was the most sentimental, the most painful trip I have ever taken.

            After passing Choletria, when I saw the village I was born before me, I neither laughed nor cried, I just had a lump in my throat.  

            I trusted my memory too much, I thought I would remember the house the moment I saw it. With the dazedness and dizziness of entering the village I took a wrong turn, all the houses looked alike, I felt confused, I couldn’t find the house I was born. But, with the map of things I had been told, I found my grandmother’s house – actually the place where it had stood before. Even the two almond trees in the courtyard were gone. Only a few pieces of stone remained. When the dam at the bottom of the village was being built, they had pulled down most of the houses in the village and used their stones.

            I’m glad I didn’t bring that key with me! It would have been funny to stand infront of a missing house with a huge key.

           

            Meanwhile the school has been converted into a church. The mosque (which looks more like a Cem Evi*) is closed, pigeons are nesting there now.

            Frankly speaking, I don’t remember the state the village was in when we left (I was 5 years old). But for years, first of all my family and all the villagers have told me so much, that this place had become a legendary place for me. Finally going there, I didn’t find it like I had imagined, at first I was disappointed. Of course, just like every place of settlement on the island it did not remain as it was left. Anyway, how could it be expected to remain the same without changing... Nearly all of the stone houses that constituted the character of the village had been knocked down, the stones had been used in the making of the dam. In time some of the vines and gardens had dried too. Because the village had no touristical and commercial importance, the remaining houses too had not been prefered much by the Greek Cypriot immigrants.

            On my visit after the doors had opened, when I went together with my parents, they showed me our house. It was a small rectangular structure, composed of three rooms. The toilet, which was also used as a bath was outside. From the saplings we had left, only the orange had become a tree. The new owner of the house was a middle aged hermit like man with a very long beard, who had just separated from his wife, lived with his dog and didn’t like to talk much.

            I truely don’t understand why some immigrants set up such a howl, express such a fanatic attitude for the houses (piles of concrete) they have left on the other side of the border.

             

            ***     

            5 years have passed since the doors at the border have opened, since the opposite passings have started.

            The village that is one of the wildest, hardest places of the Paphos area is still there, at the edge of the cliff. It stands like an eagle nest on the hills in the middle of the fruitful soils in between the streams Potamas and Diyarizo. On one side stretches plains of red soil, one the other white. Most of the plains belonging to the village are stony and rugged, not suitable for farming (before the vines and almond gardens here were olive groves.)   

            Most of the grapevines and almond gardens that remain are neglected. Even though the water is less, those old springs called Asbromya, Sakri, Mersini, Eski Çeşme, Zavra, Mitrigu and Golemona continue to flow still.   

            We are able to go and visit the village whenever we want (because my brother Ergenç has lived in Paphos since the border doors have opened, we go at least once a month) but the villagers that make Stavrogonno Stavrogonno do not live there anymore, most of them are not even alive. And what's more, that old way of life exists no more.  

            Maybe the village itself is there, but the majority of the people from Stavrogonno are here, in Lisi (Akdoğan) the village they have settled in. The village that remains in the past, breathes and lives with them. They continue to tell the village’s story. Listening to them I am learning about the village. It is them who keep it alive for me. And even though I see it’s condition today, because of the stories the villagers tell me, for me it is still a mythological place full of supernatural creatures, mystical caves, some underground labyrinths that remains still in paganism times.

            It is not only the buildings and people that live in it that make up a village, but also nature – i mean, the plains, valleys, hills, springs, trees, etc.  Now when we go to the village, we are more interested with these, not the houses that remain (the new owners of the houses have lived in them more than we have, they have accumulated more memories). I feel that my ancestors who have lived there for who-knows-how-many-years, live more, not in the houses, or even the graveyard, but in the soil, the trees and the wild scenery that surrounds it.  

           

            No matter which direction you come from, this village that requires a steep hill to be climbed greets us with scents of dill, shrubs and seasonal flowers. Whenever we go there, at the same spots my mother and father tell the same stories over and over again. Each time I get a different kind of pleasure listening to them and on every visit I discover new details about the village.

            I still lose my breath looking at the scenery when I go up the Betrono Hill that was set up in the village, where one can see the lights of 22 villages.

            Before, the times I could not go to the village, its name sounded like poetry, but now the stories of the people who have lived here buzz around in my head. And if I don’t write all those stories this buzzing will not end.

2008, Lisi-Nicosia

*holy place of prayer for the Alaouite sect.

Translated by Oya Akın.         

STAVRAKONNO 29 YIL SONRA

Anne ve Babama

ı.

Yerli yerinde ilk eviniz

ama kayıtsız girip çıkanlara

Kilise olmuş ilkokul, devasa kabaklar

yetiştiriyor papaz arka avlusunda

Bahçelerin çoğu kurusa da

akıyor hala otuz pınarlar

ıı.

Mezarlık boş, ölüler dahi kalkıp

göçenlerin peşinden gitmiş sanki

yazıtlarıyla

Uçurumun kenarına asılı kalmış köy

atlayacakmış gibi

dönüp gelmezse terk edip gidenleri

ııı.

Tarafsız ve misafirperver toprak

göçmen muamelesi yapmıyor gök

Madem ki mevsimi gelince çiçek açıyor,

meyve vermeye devam ediyor ağaçlar,

geri dönüp gülümseyecek bize

yitenler...

2003

ΣΤΑΥΡΟΚΟΝΟΥ 29 ΧΡΟΝΙΑ ΑΡΓΟΤΕΡΑ

Στη μάνα και τον πατέρα μου

1.

Το πρώτο σας σπίτι είναι ακόμα εκεί

αδιάφορο σ’ αυτούς που μπαίνουν μέσα

Το σχολείο έχει γίνει εκκλησία,

και στην αυλή της

ο παπάς καλλιεργεί τεράστιες κολοκύθες.

Αν και οι πιο πολλοί κήποι ξεράθηκαν

οι τριάντα πηγές αναβλύζουν ακόμα

2.

Το νεκροταφείο κενό,

ακόμα και οι νεκροί αναστήθηκαν

και ακολούθησαν τους μετανάστες

μαζί με τις ταφόπλακες τους

Το χωριό έμεινε κρεμασμένο στο λόφο

έτοιμο να πηδήξει

αν δεν γυρίσουν αυτοί που έφυγαν.

3.

Το χώμα φιλόξενο χωρίς προκαταλήψεις

Για τον ουρανό δεν είμαστε πρόσφυγες.

Με την αλλαγή της εποχής

τα δέντρα ανθίζουν,

και καρποφορούν ακόμα

αυτοί που έφυγαν

γυρίζουν και μας χαμογελούν.

Μετάφραση: Νίκη Μαραγκού

STAVRAGONNO 29 YEARS LATER

To My Mother and Father

ı.

Your first house in place

if indifferent to those who enter

The church has become a school,

and in his yard

the priest grows giant pumpkins

Though most gardens have dried

the thirty springs still flow

ıı.

The graveyard empty,

even the dead have risen

and with their epitaphs

gone after the immigrants

The village left hanging on the cliff

ready to jump

if those who left her do not return

ııı.

The soil unbiased and hospitable

For the sky we are not refugees

With the turn of the season,

trees blossom,

and still bear fruit,

they return and smile at us

those who were gone...

2003

Translated by Oya Akın.

STAVROKONNO

Kral yok, yedi dilin dökümü var artık

Yeni yüzülmüş geyik derisi kadar

taze koksa da tarih –

Yaşlılar gömüldü ve gemilere binip

daha yağmurlu adalara kaçtı genç olanlar

Terkedilen yerlerde bağ bahçe yürür şimdi

Kaz kadar tavuklar toprağı kaza kaza

paslı anı aletlerini çıkarırlar ortaya

İstavro altındaki kiliseciğin azizi

irisler ve bulunmaz Lüzinyan hazineleri

aynı vadide yatır

Sahipsiz kaldı kalalı köy

kaçık keçiler dolaşır ot bitmiş ev damlarında.

ΣΤΑΥΡΟΚΟΝΟΥ

Δεν υπάρχει βασιλιάς, μόνο η ενότητα των επτά  γλωσσών.

Η ιστορία είναι μυρωδιές τόσο φρέσκιες όσο

το δέρμα του φρεσκοσφαγμένου αγρινού

Οι παλιοί κάτοικοι είναι θαμμένοι, οι νέοι

φορτώθηκαν στα καράβια για τα βροχερά νησιά

Αγριοι κήποι φουντώνουν μέσα στην ερημιά

Οι κότες μεγάλες σαν χήνες σκάβουν το χώμα

ξεθάβοντας τα σκουριασμένα εργαλεία της μνήμης

Ο Αγιος στο ξωκλήσι του Σταυρού

οι ήριδες και ο θησαυρός των Λουζινιανών που δε βρέθηκε ποτέ

όλοι κοιμούνται στην ίδια κοιλάδα.

Από τότε που εγκαταλείφθηκε το χωριό

άγρια κατσίκια τρέχουν πάνω στις καλαμωτές στέγες των σπιτιών

Μετάφραση: Νίκη Μαραγκού

STAVROGONNO

There is no king, only the recorded details of seven tongues

Even if history could smell

As fresh as the newly skinned deer pelt

The old have been buried and boarding ships

The young have gone to rainier islands.

Vine-yards and orchards have taken over those abandoned places

Unearthing the rusty tools of memories

The Saint of the little chapel under the cross

Irises and Lusignan treasures lost forever

Lie in the same valley.

Since the village was abandoned

Crazy goats wander on rooftops overgrown with grass.

Gür GENÇ

Translated by Aydın Mehmet Ali

 

Jenan Selçuk

İlk Yolculuk: Anlatılamayanı Anlatmaya Kalkışmak

22 Ocak 2003, Çarşamba.

Büyük gün! Yıllardır hazırlandığım, kafamda ve yüreğimde kurguladığım, defalarca heveslenip sonradan ertelediğim veya sudan bahanelerle vazgeçtiğim bir yolculuğa çıkmama saatler var artık. Beni, 28 yıldır bu taraftakilere yasak olan yarısına adanın, doğduğum ama büyüyemediğim o ‘efsane’ köye götürecek yolculuğa. Orada benden daha fazla zaman geçirmiş olanlardan dinlediğim bölük pörçük hikayeleri birleştire yapıştıra kurduğum, masalsı Stavrogonno’ya. 

Biliyorum, büyük olasılıkla gerçek, çok fazla örtüşmeyecek, hayallerde yaşatılanla. Sorun değil, beklentilerini en azda tutmayı, uzun zaman önce öğretti nasıl olsa hayat.

Evet. Sınırın, bilinçaltımızı dikenli bir sarmaşık gibi sarmış olan bu karabasanın, üniforma rengi zarını yırtıyorum bu gece. Aşılmaz görmeye alıştırıldığımız, onu ihlal etmeye kalkışmanın (yalnızca aklınızdan geçiriyor olsanız bile) yarı-yavruvatana, buldozerlerle yerle bir edilmiş binlerce yıllık tapınaklarda dalgalanan devşirme bayraklara ve daha başka pek çok şeye ihanet anlamına geleceğine, bunun bağışlanamaz bir suç olduğuna inandırıldığımız, unutmamıza fırsat verilmeyen şu meşhur sınırın.

Öteki tarafa geçerek, onlarca yıldır bize benimsetilmeye uğraşılan korkularla yüzleşmeye gidiyorum bu gece. Yoruldum ve sıkıldım, bütün bu safsatalarla yapay endişeleri ve sınırları taşımaktan belleğimde. Daha güzel şeylere yer açmak için kurtarmam gerekiyor yüreğimi, bu tür yüklerden. Herhangi bir konuda yerinde saymak benim doğama aykırı. İlerlemek için yüzleşmekten başka çıkar yolu yok anlayacağınız.

İnanıyorum ki, sınırlardan kurtulmanın en kestirme yolu, ilk olarak her türlü sınırın, esasen kafamızda var olduğunun ayrımına varmaktan geçiyor. Söz konusu sınır her neyse, onunla hesaplaşabilir ve meselelerinizi öncelikle kafanızda çözebilirseniz, gerisi çorap söküğü...

23 Ocak, Perşembe.

Saat sabaha karşı 03:12... Sınırdan değil, sanki bir zaman tünelinden geçiyorsunuz. 28 yıl sonra Lefkoşa’ya bu taraftan girmek. Heyecandan kalacağımız adresi bulamayınca tahmini bir yerlerde indiriyor taksici bizi. Güney Lefkoşa’daki ilk adımlarımı atar atmaz, iyileştiğini zannetiğim bel ağrılarım, geri geliyor katlanarak. Düşmemek için Gür Genç’e yaslanmak zorunda kalıyorum. Onun da durumu pek parlak değil. Apandisit ameliyatından çıkalı 72 saat bile olmadı.

Kahkahalarla gülüyoruz halimize. Birinin dikişleri kanadı kanayacak, öbürü iki büklüm, üstelik kaçağız ve hava da buz gibi. Korku sirkinden kovulmuş iki karaltı ucube, bir süre sürükleniyoruz sokaklarda. Aklınızdan geçeni hemen yanıtlayayım. Daha fazla bekleyemez, erteleyemezdik kesinlikle!

Normal olmayan, insanı rahatsız eden bir enerjisi var bu odanın. Belimin durumu da fazlasıyla bozdu moralimi. Daha yolun başında yarım kaldım. Uyuyamıyorum. Tam dalacakken kan ter içerisinde fırlıyorum yer yatağımdan, nefes almak eziyet. Kalbim, dayan. Gerekirse sabaha kadar sürdüreceğim yazmayı. Ancak yazarken yaklaşıyorum aradığım huzura. O tatlı huzursuzluğu içinde yazının, bulmak huzuru.

Öğleden sonra 15:28. Lefkoşa’dan Kasaba’ya giden otobüsteyiz. Lefkoşa’dan Kasaba’ya giden otobüsteyiz. Ne hoş geliyor kulağa. Bütün gün sıkılmadan tekrarlayabilirim bu tümceyi. Kısacık bir yağmur, yumuşatıyor, Şubat’ın katılığını. Güneş. Ve maviye boyanmış dudaklarını gösteriyor deniz, rahat olun dercesine, tepelerin arasından kaçamak bir tebessümle.

Yetiştiremiyorum, tabelalarda yazan köy isimlerini okumaya. Ayvarvara, Lefkara, Dohni, Kalavaş, Pendagomo... Tabela tabela yaklaşıyoruz Stavrogonno’ya. Bu heyecan biraz daha artarsa adımı bile hatırlayabileceğimden şüpheliyim. Otobüsteyiz, Şeher’den Kasaba’ya giden! Gel de çocuklaşma!

Büyük harf ağrıyor belim. Koloş, Paramal, Evdim, Prastio, giderek vahşileşiyor doğa, Pisuri, Alehtora, bütün o hikayelerin geçtiği yerlerin, bu kadar yakınında olmak!

Çocukluğumdan beri kurtulamadığım bir takıntı bu. Yol boyunca dikilmiş tabelalarda yazan her şeyi okuma dürtüsü. Sıra sıra bağlar, dağlar, 16.32, birdenbire fakirleşmeye başladı doğa, ağrım azaldı, günbatımı, ilk gün batımım, galiba çıldıracağım, Kukla, Arşomandrida, Susuz, tartışmasız ve mümkün olduğunca tarafsız, Kıbrıs’ın en güzel bölgesi Baf, bambaşka bir enerji birikiyor içinizde, Mandirga, Timi, Anarita, Aşelya, bir terslik var, bizim köyün tabelasını kaçırmış olamam, eh, o kadar belalıymışız ki, unutturmak için otobandaki tabelalardan da çıkarmış olmalılar, Yeroşibu...

“Gözünü süzme, belini kırma, kalbimle dur oynama!”

17:20. Başladı, kafamda çalmaya... Otobüs Coral Bay’i dolaştıktan sonra şehir merkezine bırakıyor ikimizi. Pano Paphos. Zahmetli bir arayıştan sonra, paslanmış tabelası düştü düşecek, damı akıtan, yine de bahçesi ağaçlarla kaplı, keyiften gözümüze saray gözüken Youth Hostel’de ayırtıyoruz yerlerimizi. Zaten yılın bu zamanı bizden başka da kalan yok. Fareleri ve kedileri saymazsak. 

Tim, Tarantino’nun karakterlerine taş çıkartacak bir mahlukat. ‘Four Rooms’ filmindeki Tim Roth’u çağrıştırıyor tavırları. Kıbrıslıtürk olduğumuzu öğrenince inanılmaz afallıyor. Birbiri peşi sıra garip sorular sıralamaya başlıyor telaşla. Nasıl gelmişiz? Polisin haberi var mıymış? Neden? Nasıl olur? Üstelik Gür’ün ne Kıbrıs Cumhuriyeti pasaportu ne de kimliği var. Epeyi bir zamanımızı alıyor, Tim’i sakinleştirmek. Biz güldükçe bukalemun gibi renkten renge giriyor yüzü. Sonunda adam başı 5 KL’ye anlaşıyoruz.

Yiyecek bir şeyler bulalım derken, Kato Paphos’ta bulduk kendimizi. Ameliyatlardan antremanlıyız ikimizde. Onca ağrıya rağmen çocuklar gibi gördüğümüz her şeye şaşıra sevine 4-5 kilometrelik yolu yürümüşüz hiç sezmeden. Baf denizinin müziği eşliğinde, aldığımız enfes lokumades’leri yuttuk kirli parmaklarımızdan damlayan şerbetleri yalaya yalaya. Gezine gezine döndük sarayımıza.

“Ben Baflı’yım güzelim, kanmam senin cilvene.”

Öteki tarafta ikinci gecem ve yine uyuyamıyorum. Stavrogonno’ya bu kadar yaklaşmışken uyumak olanaksız. Sızılarımın da payı azımsanamayacak kadar fazla. Soğuk hiç iyi gelmiyor bele, hele soğukta yürüyüş. İkinci dünya Savaşı’ndan kalma delikli battaniyelerimize sarılıyoruz, içlerine sinmiş kokuları ve bomba seslerini duymamaya çalışarak. Sağlam adam çıktı şu Tim. Bir süre polisin basmasını bekledik. Ne gelen oldu ne giden. Karanlığın kabuklarını ayıklıyoruz sabırsızlığın tırnaklarıyla. Saygısız güneş, artık doğsana. Gür de huzursuz, dönüp duruyor ranzasında. Ne mümkün uyumak. 05:30 gibi daha fazla dayanamıyor, giyinip kalan lokmalarla kahvaltımızı ettikten sonra, ilk ışıklarını beklemeye koyuluyoruz yeni günün.

24 Ocak, Cuma.

“Üzüm üzümdür gözlerin, kalem kalem kirpiklerin.”

Sabırsızlık, sağırlaştıracak kadar uğulduyor kulaklarımda. Gözlerim taştı taşacak. Andreas, bindiğimiz ve kısa sürede ahbap olduğumuz taksinin şoförü, ona da bulaştı heyecanımız, hikayemizi dinleyince. Doğa da katılıyor oyunumuza. Sapmamız gereken çıkışı kaçırıyoruz. Fazladan bir on-on beş dakika daha yol gitmemiz gerekiyor, geriye dönecek bir yer buluncaya kadar. Ve nihayet, arkamıza alarak denizi, Trodoslar’a doğru, bademler, çilek seraları, bağlar, zeytinler arasından, başlıyoruz tırmanmaya. Durup köyün ismini de gösteren ilk tabelanın fotoğrafını çekiyoruz elbette.

“Kalbim sende, gönlüm sende.”

Anne babalarımızın tansiyonları yükselecek, bu fotoğrafları görünce. Zaten böyle, başımızı belaya sokabilecek yasadışı bir şeye kalkıştığımız için, şimdiden bir testi dolusu maraz içmişlerdir.

Ne kadar tuhaf, neredeyse otuz yıldır yaşadığınız ülkenin üçte ikisini, doğduğunuz yerleri, henüz görmemiş olmak. Rezalet. Ne kadar sindirilmiş, uysal bir toplulukmuş şu Kıbrıslılar. Bin bir entrikayla korkutulup kafeslerinin dışını merak etmelerinin bir biçimde önüne geçilmiş her defasında. Nasıl da inandırmışlar hepimizi, olması gerekenin, doğal olanın bu olduğuna. Siz kafeslerinizde uslu uslu oturun, canınız sıkılırsa mangal yakın, karılarınızı/kocalarınızı aldatın, nasıl olsa çocuklarınızın kafası iyi, hiçbir şeyi dert etmeyin.

Düşündükçe öfkeden deliresim geliyor. Adeta laboratuvarlardaki fareler gibi oynuyorlar on yıllardır bizlerle. Diledikleri deneyleri uyguluyorlar üzerimizde. Ve neredeyse hiç sesimizi çıkarmıyoruz. Yeter ki maaşlarımız kesilmesin. Boşuna dememişler, her toplum hakkettiği biçimde yönetilirmiş biraz da.

“Ne can kaldı, ne naz bende.”

Kafam karışıyor. Diarizo mu Kuru Dere miydi, önü kesilerek baraj inşa edilen. Köyümüze varıncaya kadar durmak yok. Dönüşte daha rahat inceleriz. İlk köy Holedriga. Ezeli düşmanı demeye dilim varmıyor, sürekli sürtüştükleri, Kasaba ile aralarındaki en belalı ‘barikat’, Stavrogonnolu’ların.

Karışıklık zamanları. Mutallo’daki Türk Hastahanesi’nde, yalnız başına, etrafta onunla ilgilenecek tanıdık birileri olmadan doğum yaptıktan üç gün sonra, getirildiği gibi yine Birleşmiş Milletler land-rover’iyle geri götürüyorlarmış annemi. Tabi dönüşte karnında değil kucağındayım. Otuz yıl sonra altüst olmuş bir vaziyette ikinci defa geçtiğim bu yollardan, öyle geçmişim ilkin. Kasaba’dan Holedriga’ya gelene kadar Rum’ların kurduğu üç barikatı kazasız belasız atlatmışız. ‘Sanki farkındaydın’ diyor annem. ‘Land-rover’in arkasında, sıkı sıkı kucakladım seni barikatlardan geçerken, hiç sesini çıkarmadın sende. Aferin oğlum!’. Sorunsuz geçmişiz, sonuncu barikattan da. Eylül 74. En hararetli zamanları çatışmaların.  

Ocak 2003. Hız kesici tümseklerden başka hiçbir şey yok şimdi, bizi yavaşlatabilecek. Tek bir canlıya rastlamadan geçiyoruz Holedriga’nın içinden. Etrafta dalaşabilecekleri Stavrogonnolular kalmayınca, onlar için de eski tadını yitirmiş olmalı yaşam. ‘Enişi enip yokuşu devirirkandan, göreceksiniz köyü!’...

“Kıbrıslı’yım güzelim, bul çare ne olur bu derde.”

Tarif edilemez anlar vardır yaşamlarımızda, en azından benim bir kaç tane var. Ne kelimelere ne düşüncelere ne duygulara hiçbir şeye sığmaz hani hissettikleriniz, artık ölsem de gam yemem dedirten, ölümün, yaşamın, bütün varoluşun ötesinde bir yere geçtiğinizi duyumsadığınız, yıllar süren o birkaç saniye!

Tüylerimin diken diken olmasını, göz çukurlarımın dolmasını, engelleyemiyorum. Aklıma bile gelmiyor zaten. Belim bile, bu an’a saygısından, ara verdi ağrımaya.  Gür’le birbirimize bakıyoruz. Ama konuşacak cesareti bulamıyoruz ikimiz de. Ağzımızdan çıkacak sesler, bu büyüyü bozabilir endişesiyle.

“Yeter yapma, bende kulum, tutuldu bak dilim kolum.”

Köyden ayrıldığımızda 51 haftalıktım. Çağrışım yaratacak imler biriktirecek kadar vaktim olmadı anlayacağınız. Bilmem kaçıncı defa dinlediğim hikayelerden ekleye çıkara, yazının başında da belirttiğim gibi, bir Stavrogonno hayalköyü kurmuştum kafamda.

Otuz yıla yakın, neredeyse bütünüyle boş ve bakımsız olmasına rağmen, hala daha inatla dikiliyor, iki yanında uzanan muhteşem vadilerin arasında. Yabani bir havası var. Derin derin çekiyorum tozlanmış ciğerlerime. Başımı döndürecek kadar temiz. Lisi’ye göçtük ama neredeyse herkesin ruhu buralarda kalmış. Otuz yıldır dağ keçisi inadıyla inmeyi reddediyor Mesarya düzlüklerine. Şimdi çok daha iyi anlıyorum, acılarının, kayıplarının büyüklüğünü.

Yalnızca bu muhteşem manzaradan koparılmakla kalmadık. Yüzlerce yıllık yaşayış biçimlerini de baştan sona değiştirmek zorunda bırakılmış, bu mağrur insanlar. Dağların hareketli coğrafyasından, inişli çıkışlı enerjisinden, bolluğundan, bereketinden, Kıbrıs’ın en kurak ve çorak yeri olan Mesarya’ya yerleştireceklerine, keşke öldürselermiş hepimizi. Mesarya’nın o durağanlığı, göz alabildiğince uzanan pürüzsüz düzlükleri, tembel ritmi, insanın eklemlerini, kemiklerini kemiren kireçli sularıyla çürümektense...

[...] Çok daha kötüsünü yapmış bu insanlara, idealleri uğruna savaştıkları sahtekar liderleri. 1975’e kadar çarpışmaya devam ederek teslim olmamış bu mert insanları, hamasi söylemlerle, kahramanlık masallarıyla uyutarak, ödüllendireceklerine adeta cezalandırmışlar. Yazık. Ne büyük kazık atmışlar, ‘kahramanlara’.

“Kıbrıslı’yım güzelim, kalmadı cepte tek uğurum.”

Yola çıkmadan önce ailelerimizin birer davetiye arkasına karaladıkları, evlerimizin yerini gösteren çizimlere, bakma gereği bile duymuyoruz nedense. Dün köydeymişiz de, Şeher’e, bandabulyaya gidip geri dönmüşüz sanki. Köyün girişindeki sağlı sollu bağlar, bakımsız ama yerli yerinde. Selviler de öyle. Göçmen bir kaç Rum ailesi ve çinganelerden başkası yaşamıyor köyde. Giderek zorlaşıyor anlatmak. Dili düğümleniyor kalemimin.

Dayılarıma, anne-babama, diğer akrabalarımıza, köyün meşhur karakterlerinin gençliklerine rastlıyorum bükümlü sokak aralarında. Ölenler bile hala hayatta. Tıpkı eskiden olduğu gibi, köyden geçerken durup yol sorma ihtiyatsızlığını göstermiş yabancıları sarmakla, ya da yeni evlenenleri  röntgenlemekle meşguller, yerleştikleri talvarların üzerinden. Acı verecek derecede güzel.

Nüfusu 1100’lere ulaşmış bir zamanlar. Cıvıl cıvılmış doğal olarak. Gidenlerin arkasından tuttukları matemi inatla sürdürüyor evler. Döneceklerine olan inançlarını yitirmemişler. Öncüler olarak, abartılı bir sevinçle karşılıyorlar bizleri.

Zamanımız kısıtlı. Bir an önce ‘evimizi’ bulmaya koyuluyorum. Gür onlarınkini buldu. ‘Aha pademi, bu da çeşme, ma bu yol yoğudu sanki, galiba tersim döndü!’. Daha doğrusu bulduğunu sandı. (Sonradan yanlış ev olduğunu öğreneceğiz).

Yanlarından aceleyle geçtiğim evler içeriye çağırıyor beni. ‘Buyur bir gavemizi iç, anlat, ne alemde sahiplerimiz, hayattalar mı, öldüler mi yoksa?’. Biraz olsun ilgimi çekebilmek adına, otuz yıldır sakladıkları sesleri salıveriyor duvarlar. Söz veriyorum hepinizle zaman geçirmek için yakında yeniden geleceğim. Bir 28 yıl daha beklemek yok artık!

Evimiz, ‘Okulun sağındaki yoldan, havuzun yanından geçerek, mezalığa doğru, Ayorgi tarafındaki çıkıştan önce, sağdaki son ev, yeni, yeşil pancurlu!’...

Dıştaki sıvalar, kimbilir kaçıncı defa,  dökülmeye başlamış. Çevirmenliğimizi yapıyor Andreas. İçeriye davet edip sketto kahve ikram ediyorlar. Hiç kahve içmediğim halde bugün ikinci kahvem, birer tane de Kasaba’da içmiştik. Zivaniya verin bana, ne gavesi!!! Evin içi de dışı kadar perişan. Çaktırmadan bir göz atıyorum, bizimkilerin beni yaptıklarını söyledikleri odaya. Arka tarafta sağa sola çatılmış yıkık dökük kümesler, ahır, kırık çinkolar ve bir zamanlar zirvelerinde ‘tilkilerin yuvalandığı’, kayalarını inşa edilen baraja kurban verdiğimiz, köyün simgesi meşhur Bedrono’dan, geriye kalanlar. Tavuklar, melemeler, keçiler, havlamalar, köpekler, gıdaklamalar, uğultu...

Başım dönüyor, dünya durdu dönmüyor. Bahçedeki bademden çiçek açmış bir dalcık koparıyorum, ve yerde bulduğum bademleri, alıçları tıkıştırıyorum ceplerime. Annemin ektiği incir, gülümseyip göz kırpıyor galiba.

*

Lisi’deki bahçemizde, yabani bir bademe aşılıyoruz, getirdiğim dalı. İkiye ayırıp, birini de saksıya ekiyor babam, bakalım tutacak mı...

İkinci Yolculuk: ‘Zevk-i İ-Stavrogonnidi!’

14 Şubat 2003, Cuma.

Upuzun bir suskunluk. Günler, kısacık maceramızı tekrar tekrar yaşayarak, ballandıra ballandıra anlatarak geçti. İstanbul’dayım. Bir yandan eski dostlarımla hasret giderirken, bir yandan da Yunanistan üzerinden güneyine gitme hazırlıkları yapıyorum Kıbrıs’ın. Sabaha karşı 04.20. Altı gündür kaldırabileceğinden çok daha fazlasını yüklüyorum bedenime. Gene iflas etme noktasına getirdim galiba. Lefkoşa’nın güneyinde geçirdiğimiz ilk gecenin aynısı: nefes alamıyorum, göğsümde biriken basınç, izin vermiyor uyumama. Artık yaşlanıyorsun oğlum. 17 yaşındaymışsın gibi davranmaktan vazgeç. Bilmem kaçıncı defa, artık bu kadar çok içmeyeceğime dair söz veriyorum kendime, tutmayacağımı bile bile!

18 Şubat, Salı. 

Yaklaşık 23 saat süren bir tren eziyetinden sonra, İstanbul-Uzunköprü-Pithio-Thessalonikki güzergahını izleyerek, sabahın erken saatlerinde varıyoruz, karlar içerisindeki Atina’ya. Geçen seferki gibi yine ‘gece gibi geçiyorum’, bu defa hiç olmazsa bir gün kalıp biraz olsun etrafı göreyim diyorum. Eeeee, Akropolis’e karşıdan ve yukarıdan bakabileceğiniz bu tepeliklerde taze ahtapotla kalamar, yanında ev yapımı şarap, elbette unutturur bütün sözleri!

23 Şubat, Pazar.

Her şey öylesine büyüleyici ki, değil yazmak, soluk almak için bile durmak istemedim kaç gündür. Çarşamba günü (19 Şubat), Cyprus Airlines’ın Atina-Larnaka uçağına binerken, artık fiziksel dünyada değildim. Uçuş boyunca ‘Dillirga’, ‘Feslikan’ gibi Kıbrıs şarkıları eşliğinde şarap üstüne şarap... Onlarca defa uçmuşumdur KTHY ile, bir defa bile duymadım, herhangi bir Kıbrıs şarkısının çalındığını!

Pasaport kontrolüne yaklaşırken korku yoktu, yalnızca küçük bir acaba kurcalıyordu yüreğimi. O bile gereksizmiş. Kıbrıs’ın güneyine girmek, kuzeyine girip/çıkmaktan daha kolaymış meğersem. Pasaportunu gösterip geçiyorsun, mühür bile vurmuyorlar kendi vatandaşlarının belgelerine. Sanırım buna yakın bir şey olmalı, seyahat özgürlüğü dedikleri.

Kuzey’deyse niye her şeyin kaydedildiğini, şimdi daha iyi kavramaya başlıyorum. Osmanlı’dan miras yaklaşımların uzantısı sayılabilecek Türk devlet geleneğiyle yetişmiş yetkililer, kesinlikle yeterince güvenmiyor, ‘tebaa’larına. Askeri, baskıcı rejim-zihniyet, geliştirdiği yeni yöntemlerle sürekli denetim altında tutmaya çalışıyor, önemsiz nesneler olarak algıladığı vatandaşlarını. Bürokrasiyle bezdirerek dirençlerini kırmak, heveslerini aşındırmak, onları mümkün olduğunca edilginleştirmek için, ‘gözümüz üzerinizde, ona göre’ olarak da okunabilecek, bütün devletlerin başvurduğu buna benzer zararsızmış izlenimi veren müdahalelerle, sürekli hatırlatma ihtiyacı duyuyorlar, kendi varlıklarını.

*

Üst üste bu kadar ‘ilk defa’ başımı döndürdü. Larnaka’ya doğru kırıyor dümenini Sönmez, havaalanından kiraladığımız arabanın. O da İngiltere’den geldi, yeni aldığı British Passport’unun kızlığını, Kıbrıs’ta bozmayı seçerek. Tuz gölünde güneşlenip temizlenen flamingolar karşılıyor bizi, zarif danslarıyla, duyulmaz bir müzik eşliğinde.

Gondeyalı çıkmasın mı, şarap almaya girdiğimiz bakkalın sahibi. Öteki taraftan, üstelik Lisi’den olduğumuzu öğrenince, gözleri doluyor adamcağızın. Evini, köyünün durumunu soruyor titrek bir sesle. Emekleyen Rumca’mıza rağmen, hiçbir sıkıntı duymadan anlaşabildiğimizi fark ediyorum şaşkınlıkla, pek fazla gerek kalmadan kelimelere. Daha derinlerde, bizleri yakınlaştıran ortak bir dil, varlığını duyumsatmak için çağıldıyor sanki ısrarla. İhtiyarı o duygu karmaşası içerisinde bırakıp çörek alamaya giriyoruz yandaki fırından. Koyu bir AKEL’ci çıkıyor fırının sahibi olan kadın, yanında çalışan özürlü fırıncı da, Lisi’li...

Muhtemelen hayatlarımızdaki en uzun ve en sarsıcı alışverişi tamamladıktan sonra, geceyi geçirebileceğimiz, gözlerden uzak, sahile yakın bir yer aramaya koyuluyoruz hafiften demlenerek. Bütçemiz her gece otelde kalmamıza yetecek esnekliğe sahip değil. O parayı şaraba harcamayı tercih ediyoruz hem. Bu yüzden arabamız evimiz olmak zorunda. Uyku tulumlarımızda, metreslerimiz. Keyfimiz öylesine yükseklerdeki, bir babutsaya bile sarılıp uyuyabiliriz hiç şikayet etmeden. Issız bir koy buluyoruz, Protaras yakınlarında, sabahleyin güneşi uyandırmaya hevesli gezginlere uygun. Altıncı şişe şaraptan ve bilmem kaçıncı sidikten sonra, nihayet başlıyoruz esnemeye.

*

Aborgine’ler gibi, geceden kalma zivaniyayla, ayakta karşılıyoruz güneşi. Pile’den Faik’i de alarak, içe içe, doğruluyoruz Baf’a.  Petra tou Romiou’ya kadar durmak yok. Elli altmış metre içeriden kırılmaya başlayan dalgalar, beyaz köpüklerden gelinliğiyle, Aphrodite’in düğünü müydü yoksa kutladıkları?

Kukla’da birer sketto kahve içip, köylülerle sohbet ettikten sonra, hade bame, Stavrogonno’ya. Sırf tepkilerini, suratlarının alacağı şekli görebilmek için, nereden geldiğimizi söylüyorum insanlara.  Şaşkınlıkları geçince yüzlerine yayılan o gülümseme, her şeye değer. Birçokları neredeyse otuz yıl sonra ilk defa bir Kıbrıslıtürk’le karşılaşıyor, bazıları içinse hayatlarında bir ilk bu. ‘Öteki’yle karşılaşmak, hem de böylesine hazırlıksız yakalanmak bu karşılaşmaya, kuşku/merak/endişe/ tereddüt/coşku, birbirine karışıyor bütün tepkiler. Genç olanlar ne yapacaklarını, nasıl davranmaları gerektiğini bilemiyor çoğunlukla, yaşlılarsa daha önceki deneyimlerine göre ya inanılmaz sıcak, içten ve sevecenler; mesafeli ve kayıtsız durmayı yeğliyorlar ya da.

*

Stavrogonno- daha yeşil, daha ıslak, daha çiçeklenmiş, daha tanıdık, daha yalnız, daha kederli. Vazgeçmek üzere sanki. Güç veriyor ona gelişimiz, renk yürüyor yanaklarına. Kavuşuyor eski coşkusuna. Görüntüleri ürkütücü, ellerinde fotoğraf makineleriyle çekirgeler gibi oradan oraya sıçrayan, bağıra çağıra konuşan bu üç uzun saçlı sakallı yabancı, varlıklarıyla huzurunu kaçırıyor, köyün bizlerden sonraki yerleşimcileri olan yabancıların.

Okulun karşısındaki evde yaşayan samimiyetini pek inandırıcı bulmadığımız muhtar, yanımıza yanaşıp kahve içmeye davet ediyor, neyin nesi olduğumuzu anlamaya çalışırken. Birazdan geliriz deyip Bedrono’dan kalanlara tırmanıyoruz, kurumuş guzubaların arasından. Bütün köy altımızda. Birer okkalı yudum alıyoruz zivaniyadan. Eyva re İ-Stavrogonno. ‘Zevk-i İ-Stavrogonnidi!’.

Neymiş şu muhtaros! Daha ilk yudumlarını yutmadan acı zehir kahvenin, polis arabası duruyor kapının önünde. Böyle bir şeye hazırlıklı olduğumuzdan fazlaca bozuntuya vermiyoruz. Kaçak sayılabilecek Faik var bir tek. Gizlice tellerden geçmiş. Kıbrıs Cumhuriyeti kimlik kartı ve pasaportu var yine de. 

Stelyos, 50-55 yaşlarında, komşu köy Celocara’dan. Sıcak bir ‘Welcome to Cyprus’la elimizi sıkarak, gideriyor endişelerimizi. Sohbet havasında bizden bilgi alma derdinde. Tanıdığını söylüyor babalarımızla dedelerimizi. Tekrar tekrar herhangi bir sorun olmadığının altını çizerek sürdürüyor konuşmasını. İsimlerimizi, öteki bilgileri not ediyor bir davetiyenin arkasına. Tam da Kıbrıslı’lara yakışan bu hareket, üçümüzü de gülümsetiyor. Sonunda hikayelerimizden tatmin olmuş bir vaziyette, vedalaşıp gidiyor.

Bu yarı-sorgulama, az da olsa, aşağıya çekiyor keyfimizi. Üstelik  Stavrogonno’daki ilk gün batımını da kaçırdık bu yüzden. Bizi bekleyecek değil ya güneş. ‘En azından biz insanları kahve içmeye davet edip arkasından polis çağırmıyoruz!’, çıkarken söylediklerimiz yüzünden, bok olmuş bir suratla gidişimizi izlemek kalıyor muhtaros’a!

Kasaba’ya inip kalacak bir yer bakıyoruz. Üç gündür yatak yüzü görmemiş, duş almamıştım. Keyifsizken keyiflenmek için, keyifliyken de keyfimizi çoğaltmak için, yani hep yaptığımız gibi şaraba sarılıyoruz keyifle. Bizim için iyi bir uyarıydı bu tatsız olay, ilk yudumdan sonra unutacağımız...

Jenan Selçuk

First Journey: An Attempt to Explain What is Inexplicable

22nd January 2003, Wednesday.

The day has come! Only hours left for the journey I have, for many years, prepared myself for, the journey that I have fictionalised in my mind and heart, that I have felt the strong desire for, but then for lame excuses postponed or decided not to take. The journey that will take me to the other side of the island, the place that has been forbidden to us for 28 years, to that ‘legendary’ village I was born, but didn’t grow up in. To the fairy tale Stavrogonno, which I have created piece by piece, bringing together stories of people who have spent more time there than I have.

I know that reality will probably not match what has been kept alive in fantasy. But it doesn’t matter. Life has taught me long ago to keep my expectations low.

Yes. Tonight I am ripping the uniform coloured membrane of the border, which has been surrounding our subconscious, like a thorny ivy. The famous border, that we were never given the opportunity to forget, that we were trained to see as indestructible, convinced that attempting to violate it (even to think about it) was an unforgivable crime, which would mean betrayal to the half-yavruvatan (1), would mean gathering flags that have been swaying over thousand year old temples razed by bulldozers, and many others.

Tonight I am going to cross to the other side, to confront the fears inseminated to us artificially, for decades. I am sick and tired of all this nonsense, of carrying the burden of these artificial worries and borders in my memory. I have to clean my heart of its burdens in order to make space for more beautiful things. It is against my nature to mark time. In order to progress, there is no other way but to confront.

I believe that the most easy way to get rid of borders, is to understand that, every sort of border, essentially exists in our mind. If you manage to deal with -whatever that border is- and solve all related issues primarily in your head, then the rest will come easily and quickly...

23rd January, Thursday.

03:12 in the morning... It is as if you are not passing from the border, but crossing a time tunnel. Entering Nicosia from this side after 28 years. The taxi driver drops us off at an approximate place, when from excitement we cannot find the address we were suppose to stay. Immediately upon taking my first steps in South Nicosia, the pains in my back, which I thought had been cured, return more intensely than ever. I lean against Gür Genç in order not to fall. His condition is no better. It hasn’t been 72 hours since he has come out of an appendicitis operation.

We are laughing at our condition. One’s stitches almost bleeding, the other bent double, as if this is not enough, we are fugitives and the weather is freezing cold. Freaks thrown out from the circus of horror, we wander around for a while. Let me answer the question probably passing your mind now. No, we couldn’t wait or postpone it any longer!

There is an abnormal, troubling energy in this room. My back’s condition is upsetting me. I am already half and this is just the beginning of our journey. I can’t sleep. Just as I am falling asleep, I jump out of my bed on the floor, dripping with sweat, hardly breathing. Bear my heart, bear. I shall continue writing till day break, if need be. Only when I am writing do I get close to the inner peace I am searching for. Finding tranquillity in that sweet uneasiness of writing.

Afternoon, 15:28. We are on the bus taking us from Şeher to Kasaba (2). On the bus taking us from Şeher to Kasaba. How nice it sounds. I can repeat this sentence all day long. A short sprinkle of rain softens the rigidity of February. The sun. And with her elusive smile from among the hills, the sea shows her blue painted lips, as if to say calm down.

I can’t catch up reading all the village names written on the signposts. Agia Varvara, Lefkara, Tochni, Kalavassos, Pentakomo... Sign by sign we are approaching Stavrogonno. If this excitement increases, I have doubts that I will be able to remember my name. We are on the bus, taking us from Şeher to Kasaba! It’s impossible not to become childish!

My back is aching in capital letters now. Kolossi, Paramali, Avdimou, Prastio, nature is getting wilder, Pissouri, Alehtora, to be this close to all those places I have listened countless numbers of stories about!

This is a compulsion I have had since childhood. The impulse to read everything written on signposts erected alongside roads, row upon row of vineyards, mountains, 16.32, suddenly nature becomes impoverished, my pain diminishes, sunset, my first sunset, I think I am going crazy, Kouklia, Archimandrita,  Souskiou, no doubt and as objective as possible, Paphos is the most beautiful region of the whole of Cyprus, such an outstanding energy accumulates inside you, Mandria, Timi, Anarita, Nata, Acheleia, there is something wrong, it’s impossible that I’ve missed our village’s sign, ah, we were so calamitious that, in order to forget, they even took our sign off the highway, Geroskipou...

“Gözünü süzme, belini kırma, kalbimle dur oynama!” (3)

17:20. It has started to ring in my head... The bus, after circling around Coral Bay, has dropped us to the city center. Pano Paphos. After an onerous search, we arrange our places in the Youth Hostel. It’s rusted sign almost falling, roof leaking, but still, with its wild trees in the garden and out of the pleasure we are feeling, it seems like a palace to us.  In fact, at this time of the year, if you don’t count the rats and cats, no one is staying here but us.

Tim, a strange creature far superior to the Tarantino characters, his gestures exactly like Tim Roth in ‘Four Rooms’. Upon finding out that we are Turkish Cypriot, he becomes bewildered. Excitedly, he lines bizarre questions one after other. How did we come? Does the police know? Why? How come? Besides Gür has neither a passport nor the identity card of the Republic of Cyprus. It takes us some time to calm Tim. His face, just like a chameleon, switches from colour to colour as we laugh. Finally we agree on 5 CypP per head.

Looking for something to eat, we find ourselves at Kato Paphos. We are both trained from the operations we have had. In spite of all our pain, surprised and happy about everything that we see like children, without realising we have walked 4-5 kilometers. We swallow the lokumades that we bought licking the sherbet dripping from our dirty fingers while listening to the music of the Paphos sea. Wandering aimlesly, we returned to our palace.

“Ben Baflı’yım güzelim, kanmam senin cilvene.

My second night on the other side and again I can’t sleep. It is impossible to sleep being so close to Stavrogonno. My pains have their share too. The cold is definately not doing any good for my back, especially walking in the cold. We wrap ourselves tighter in our blankets full of holes remaining from the World War II, trying not to smell the odours and hear the sounds of the bombs penetrated deep in them. Tim turned out to be a reliable guy. We had waited for the police, but no one has shown up. All night long, we peel the skins of darkness with nails of impatience. Oh, disrespectful sun, why don’t you rise? Gür is restless too, turning from one side to the other on his bunk. There’s no way to sleep. Around 05:30, after we put on our clothes and have the remaining lokumades as our breakfast, we begin to wait for the light of the new day.

24th January, Friday.

“Üzüm üzümdür gözlerin, kalem kalem kirpiklerin.”

A deafening impatience howls in my ears. My eyes ready to overflow. Andreas, the driver of the taxi, our excitement infects him too, as he listens to our story. Nature is joining in with our game. We miss the exit we were supposed to take. We drive another ten-fifteen minutes until we find a place to return to the highway. And finally, turning our backs to the sea, we start climbing towards Troodos, among almonds, strawberry greenhouses, vineyards, olives. We stop to take a picture of the first sign showing our village’s name.

“Kalbim sende gönlüm sende.”

Our parents’ blood pressure will rise when they see these pictures. They must already be very worried, because we are doing illegal things, things that could put us in serious trouble.

How strange, to not see two thirds of your country, the places you were born for almost thirty years. Such a shame. How intimidated, how compliant these Cypriots are. Easily scared with a thousands tricks, every time their curiosity about the outside of their cage obstructed. How they made us believe that this was what was natural, that this was how things were supposed to be. Sit still in your cages, hold barbeques if you get bored, cheat on your wives/husbands, your children are high anyway, don’t you worry about anything.

The more I think about it, the more furious I become. For decades, they have been playing with us like rats in a laboratory. They have been applying whichever experiment they wish upon us. And we have not said anything. As long as our salaries kept coming. It’s not for nothing that they say each society is governed just as they deserve.

“Ne can kaldı, ne naz bende.”

I am confused. Was it Diarisos or Kuru Dere, that they built a dam infront. No stopping until we reach our village. We’ll have a look on our way back. The first village is Choletria. I wouldn’t call enemy but the most troublesome ‘barricade’ between our village and Kasaba, always in quarrel with Stavrogonnians.

Times of turmoil. Three days after giving birth -on her own, with no one accompanying her- at the Turkish Hospital in Moutallos, they were taking my mother back, the same way she had been brought, with an UN land-rover. Of course this time I was not in her womb but in her arms. From these roads that I am passing now after thirty years, confused and disordered, is how I passed first. From Kasaba to Choletria we crossed three Greek barricades without any trouble. ‘It’s as if you knew’ says my mother ‘At the back of the land-rover I held you tight as we crossed the barricades, you didn’t make a sound. Well done my son!’. We safely crossed the last barricade too. September 74. The most zealous times of the armed conflicts.  

January 2003. There is nothing but road humps to slow us down now. We come across no signs of life as we cross Choletria. Life must have become unpleasant and boring for them too, when there weren’t any Stavrogonnians left around that they could argue with.  ‘After you go down the hill and climb the next one, you will see our village!’...

“Kıbrıslıyım güzelim, bul çare ne olur bu derde.”

There are indescribable moments in our lives -at least I have a few- where your feelings don’t fit in any words, or thoughts, or anything, where even dying wouldn’t matter, where you feel like you are somewhere beyond death, life and the whole creation, moments that last for years!

I cannot prevent my hair standing on end, my eye sockets filling. I don’t even dare. Even my back, out of its respect to this moment, took a break from aching.  Gür and I look at each other, but cannot find the courage to talk. We are worried that words might spoil this enchanting event.

“Yeter yapma, bende kulum, tutuldu bak dilim kolum.”

I was 51 weeks old when we left the village. I didn’t have enough time to gather images for future recollections. As I mentioned in the beginning, I had built an imaginary Stavrogonno village, using different pieces of the stories I had listened to for a thousand times.

Though almost empty and neglected for thirty years it still stubbornly stands among marvelous valleys on both sides. A wild gust of air blows. I breath it in deeply to my dustful lungs. So fresh and clean that my head spins. We have migrated to Lysi but almost everyone’s spirit remains here. For thirty years like obstinate moufflons resisting to descend down to the Mesaorian plains. Now I truly understand the immensity of their pain and loss.

We weren’t just torn away from this splendid scenery. But these proud people were forced to completely change the way they had lived for centuries. Instead of moving from the vivacious geography, hilly energy, from the abundance, fruitfulness of the mountains to the driest place of whole Cyprus, to Mesaoria, I wish we had all been murdered. To the stillness of Mesaoria, the monotonous plains that reach the horizon, the lazy rhythm, its limewaters gnawing the joints and bones of people...

The swindling leaders, whose ideals they fought for, have treated this people very badly. Instead of rewarding these brave people who didn’t surrender and continued fighting till 1975, they punished them, deceiving them with nationalist discourses and heroic tales. What a pity. What a swindle to the ‘heroes’.

“Kıbrıslı’yım güzelim, kalmadı cepte tek uğurum.”

We don’t even feel the necessity to check the drawings, showing the locations of our house’s, that our parents scribbled on the back of a wedding invitation earlier. It feels as if we were in the village yesterday, as if we had gone to Şeher to the Bandabullia and have returned back today. Vineyards on both sides of the enterance, neglected but still there. The Cypresses look healthy too. Some emigrant Greek familes and Gypsies are living here now. It is getting harder to describe. My pen’s tongue is knotted.

I can see my uncles, my parents, other relatives, famous characters of the village, all young and healthy, wandering around. Even the dead are alive. They are either busy mocking foreigners who have stopped to ask for direction, or peeping on some newly weds, just as it was before. So beautiful that it hurts.

They say that the population reached to around 1100 once. So lively it was. Houses, insistently continue with their mourning for the immigrants. They haven’t lost their belief that one day they will return. As the first comers, they welcome us with an exaggerated delight.

Our time is limited. I set out to find ‘our house’ as quickly as possible. Gür has found their’s. ‘Aha this is the almond, the fountain, I think this road wasn’t there, I’m not sure, I am confused!’. Actually he thought that he had. (Later we learn that it wasn’t the right house).

Houses that I pass by in a hurry invite me inside. ‘Come on in, have a coffee, how are our owners, tell us, are they alive or not living anymore?’. In order to catch my attention walls are releasing the voices they have preserved for years. I promise I will come back soon to spend more time with you all. I will not wait another 28 years!

Our house, ‘Follow the road going right from the school, pass the pool, towards the graveyard, just before the exit to Agios Georgios, the last house on the right, new, with green shutters!’...

The external plasters, for who knows how many times, have started to fall again. Andreas is our translator. They invite us in and offer sketto coffee. Though I have never drank coffee before, this will be my second today. We had one in Paphos earlier. Give me zivania, what I am going to do with coffee!!! Inside is as miserable as it was outside. Without getting noticed I sneak a glance to the room my parents said they made me. Backyard, ruined coops, a demolished barn, wood, iron and what is left from the symbol of the village, the famous Bedrono, its rocks now victimized for the dam built nearby, once ‘the nesting place of foxes’. Chicken, bleating, goats, barking, dogs, cackling, buzzzzz...

My head is spinning, the earth has stopped, not turning anymore. I break a little branch from the blossomed almond in our garden and cramjam into my pockets, almonds and azaroles I find on the ground. The fig tree that my mother had planted, is smiling and winking at me I guess.

We graft onto an almond tree in our garden in Lysi, the branch that I have brought. Dividing it, my father plants the second part into a flowerpot, let’s see if it will grow...

Second Journey: ‘Zevk-i İ-Stavrogonnidi!’ (4)

14th February 2003, Friday.

A very long silence. Days have gone by talking about our short adventure, reliving it over and over again. I am in Istanbul. Spending some quality time with old friends and getting prepared to go South Cyprus via Greece. 04.20 in the morning. For six days I have loaded onto my body, more than it can take. Again it has reached the point of collapse. Similar to the first night in South Nicosia: I can’t breathe, the pressure on my chest won’t let me sleep. You are getting old my friend. Quit acting like you are 17. I promise myself -how manieth times I can’t remember now- that I won’t drink this much again, knowing that I won’t keep my promise!

18th February, Tuesday. 

After almost a 23 hour long train torture, following the Istanbul-Uzunköprü-Pithio-Thessalonikki route, we arrive early in the morning, to snow-dressed Athens. Like last time, I am again ‘passing like the night’, so I say this time I should at least stay a day to look around. Eeeee, fresh octopus and calamary with wine on this hill facing Acropolis below, sure makes you forget all your promises!

23rd February, Sunday.

Everything is so enchanting that I didn’t want to give break not only for writing but even for breathing. On wednesday (19th February), as I was getting on the Cyprus Airlines’s Athens-Larnaca plane, I wasn’t in the physical world anymore. Throughout the flight, listening to Cypriot songs like ‘Dillirga’ and ‘Feslikan’, I drank wine after wine... I have flown tens of times with Cyprus Turkish Airlines, but not once heard them play any Cyprus songs.

I feel no fear approaching the passport control, just a little wonder dwelling in my heart. Even that wasn’t necessary. I am starting to realise that entering South Cyprus is easier than entering and leaving the North. You just show your passport and pass, they don’t even stamp the documents of their citizens. It must be something like this, what they call freedom of travel.

I understand better now why in the North they keep the record of everything. Authorities coming from Turkish state tradition -which can be accepted as the extension of approaches heritaged from Ottomans- are definetely not trusting towards their ‘tebaa’ (5). The militarist, repressive regime-mentality, with the new methods that they have developed, try to keep their citizens under control. Through seemingly harmless interferences, which can be read as ‘we are watching you, act accordingly’, that all states apply, they feel the urge to remindg their presence continuously, in order to passivise their subjects, disgust them with bureaucracy, break down their enthusiasm.

*

So many ‘firsts’, one after the another have made me dizzy. After we get into our rented car from the airport, we head towards Larnaca with Sönmez. He has come from England, choosing to deflower his newly issued British Passport in Cyprus. The flamingoes sunbathing at the Salt lake welcome us with their elegant dance accompanied with some unheard music.

The owner of the market we stop to get wine turns out to be a Kondean. Upon hearing that we are from the other side and from Lysi (not even two kilometers between the two villages), he starts crying. With a trembling voice, he asks about his house, his village’s condition. I realise that even though our Greek is poor, without much difficulty we can communicate, not needing many words. As if a common language, flowing under, is insistently babbling to remind us of its existence. We leave the old man in a confusion of feelings and go into the bakery next door to buy some bread. The lady turns out to be a strong AKEL supporter, the handicapped baker working for her, comes from Lysi.

After completing probably the longest and the most shaking shopping experience of our lives, we begin to look for a distant coast to spend the night. Our budget is not flexible enough to stay in a hotel every night. We prefer to spend our money on wine instead. So our car becomes our house. Our sleeping bags, our mistresses. We are in such high spirits that we could even embrace a babutsa and sleep without complaining. We find a quiet bay near Protaras, suitable for keen travelers who want to wake the sun in the morning. After the sixth bottle of wine and countless numbers of pee, we are finally yawning.

*

Like Aborigine’s, we welcome the sun standing, with some zivania left from the night before. We pick Faik up from Pyla and head towards Paphos, drinking all along the way. We don’t stop till Petra tou Romiou. Waves breaking fifty sixty meters inside, is it the wedding of Aphrodite they are celebrating, in her bridal dress of white foams? 

After drinking our sketto coffees at Kouklia and chatting with the villagers, hade bame, off to Stavrogonno. Just to see their reactions, to see how their face will change, I tell people we meet where we are coming from.  That smile, covering their face following confusion, is worth seeing. For some of them, they are seeing a Turkish Cypriot again almost after thirty years, for others, this is the first time. Coming face to face with the ‘other’, especially caught so unprepared for such a meeting, creates suspicion/curiosity/hesitation/enthusiasm/exaggeration, all intermixed. The younger ones cannot decide what to do, how they should act, older ones, according to their experiences in the past are either extremely warm, sincere and tender, or prefer to stay away and ignore.  

*

Stavrogonno -more green, more wet, more flowers around, more familiar, more lonely, more sorrowful. As if just about to give up. Our arrival strengthens her, brings colour to her cheeks, she gains her enthusiasm back. With their scary appearances, jumping around like grasshoppers, with cameras in their hands, these loud talking long haired, long bearded strangers are disturbing the new settler strangers of the village, by just being there.

The Mukhtar, living in the house opposite to the school, whose sincerety we didn’t find convincing, while trying to find out who we are, is inviting us in for coffee. We tell him that we will come later and walk among the dried vines, climb to what is left from Bedrono. The whole village is below us now. We take big sips from the zivania. Eyva re İ-Stavrogonno. ‘Zevk-i İ-Stavrogonnidi!’.

What a man this muhtaros is! We haven’t even swallowed the first sip of the poison sour coffee and a police jeep stops outside. But since we were expecting something like this, we remain indifferent. Only Faik can be counted as illegal, he had secretly passed from the barbed-wires, but he has the passport and ID of the Republic of Cyprus.

Stelyos, 50-55 years old, from the next village, Kelokedara. He shakes our hands with a warm ‘Welcome to Cyprus’, he comforts us. He is after gathering some information, but he chooses to do this with friendly conversation. He remembers our fathers and grandfathers. He talks, mentioning again and again that there is nothing for us to worry about. Noting down our names and other information on the back side of a wedding invitation. This, proper Cypriot behaviour, makes us laugh. Eventually, satisfied with our stories, he wishes us a good journey and leaves.

This semi-interrogation has started to pull our spirits down a little, besides, because of it, we have missed our first sunset in Stavrogonno. Of course the sun wasn’t going to wait for us. ‘At least we do not invite people in for coffee and call the police behind their backs!’ After all the things we have said to him, muhtaros probably watched our departure with a face of shit!

We descend down to Paphos looking for a place to stay. It’s been three days since I have seen any bed or shower. We embrace our wines with pleasure, just as we always have, when upset to raise our spirit, when in a good mood, to make it better. This unpleasant incident was a good warning for us, an incident we will forget after our first sip...

(1) Name given to Cyprus by Turkey (motherland), literally meaning ‘babyland’.

(2) Şeher and Kasaba, what our villagers still use to address Nicosia and Paphos, respectively.

(3) Lyrics of a very popular song among Pafidians, released by RINTLER around mid-60’s, also coming from Paphos.

(4) An expression used by UN soldiers, stressing the pleasure fondness of the villagers.

(5) Meaning the society (subjects) in Ottoman Empire.