THE HAGUE, 1989
Carrying another life within me expands my awareness about the miracle that is the human body. With minimal morning sickness and signs of pregnancy, I continue to juggle my multiple roles with relative ease. I’m also excited that Michael will return to The Hague permanently at the end of the year and we plan to purchase the apartment Michael was living in Wassenaar, an exclusive town adjacent to The Hague. Motherhood energizes me, and Michael is taking on my symptoms as well. I feel the baby kick and imagine that it is just as excited about meeting Michael and me as we are in anticipation of welcoming it into this world.
As the Turkish government begins importing thousands of Turkish nationals into the occupied area of Cyprus, a directive is sent to closely examine requests from Turkish Cypriots for passports. I switch roles and perform my duty as an honorary consul when my assistant alerts me that there are Turkish men seeking passport renewals without a scheduled appointment. To her surprise, I agree to see them.
The men enter dragging their old, beat-up suitcases behind them. One with a slight frame takes a step forward.
“Xρειάζομαι βoήθεια παρακαλώ,” (I need your help, please) he says in Greek.
“Welcome, gentlemen. Please, sit down.” Turning to my assistant, I say, “Order lunch for these gentlemen and bring us some Turkish coffee, please.”
The fact that the man with the slight build speaks Greek is a good indication he is a Turkish Cypriot, as most Turkish nationals are not fluent in Greek.
The hollowness in their eyes reflects deep loss, a look that I am familiar with. The one with the slight build reaches for a piece of his luggage and feels around the exterior of the bag until he finds a self-made slit, invisible to the eye, on the underside of his bag.
“Denktash [then President of the unrecognized Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus] forbids us to use our Cypriot passports.”
“Then how did you get into Holland?” I ask.
He removes a piece of silver foil from the slit in the suitcase and opens it to reveal a Cypriot passport in his name about to expire.
“We traveled with the TRNC passport first by boat to Turkey. Then we took a bus to Holland, and we show our Cypriot passport to the Dutch authorities.”
The Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus is not recognized by any government except Turkey, so these men would have been barred from entering Holland had they not had Cypriot passports. I continue to ask the men to describe the village they come from to test the authenticity of their Cypriot citizenship. To my surprise they came from Agios Iacovos, a village in the occupied area just a few minutes away from Mandres, where my extended family lived. With lunch now set at the conference table, I motion for the men to join me there. They bow their heads in respect before we sit down to dine together.
“Tell me about the church in Mandres, the village next to yours,” I say.
“I have seen nothing,” he says.
“I’m interested because I am from Famagusta. You have my word on that.”
He relaxes. “It became a target. Some people say it is the soldiers who steal, and others say that when the Greeks fled they took their icons with them.”
“What do you believe?” I ask.
“I believe that war makes people do desperate things. We are also not happy with what is happening in the occupied area. We have no future there. Most of us Turkish Cypriots have left the island,” he responds.
“Please understand that I depend on my government to check your information before I can continue.”
“What can you do when war takes your job and the pennies you spent a lifetime earning? The foreign diplomats and rich outsiders come to Cyprus to buy them. Even the soldiers take them.”
“In Mandres, Turks and Greeks also lived together. My mother taught Turkish Cypriot girls how to sew in the village. She even speaks Turkish.” These men, know the devastating impact of war. “It’s important that I know what is happening in the occupied area in regard to churches and archeological sites.”
The man with the slight build takes center stage.
“Men come and take objects away from the church by truck.”
“Do the United Nations soldiers not see any of this?” I ask, reminding myself that while some Cypriots are able to live side by side peacefully, a steady flow of intercommunal violence in 1964 along the line separating Greek and Turkish quarters in Nicosia (later known as the Green Line) prompted the United Nations to send in a Peacekeeping Force (UNFICYP). After the 1974 invasion, the UN Security Council mandated the force to remain in Cyprus to support the ceasefire and to serve humanitarian efforts. “How could this take place in their presence?” I ask again.
The man lowers his head as if he carries the shame for the situation solely on his shoulders. “The UN soldiers see, but then look the other way,” he responds. I appreciate the courage it takes for this man to speak so openly to me.
“Where are you staying?” I ask.
“Most nights we go to the park,” he answers. I feel for these men. Their lives were also destroyed by the invasion. Despite the political situation and the mistrust created between our two cultures, I can’t blame every Turkish Cypriot for the invasion of Cyprus. As honorary consul it is my duty to serve every Cypriot equally. My instincts tell me these men are legitimate Cypriots, but I will take the confirmation process further. I decide to put the men up in a hotel and pay for their dinner at my personal expense. I give them my business card with the hotel information handwritten on the back of it.
“Tonight, you are my guests. Rest, enjoy, and call me at this number in the morning.” Their animated expressions reflect their appreciative disbelief.
“Madame Consul, we will repay your generosity. You can count on us to relay news from the occupied area,” says my new friend.
“Thank you,” I say as I scribble my private number on another card.
“Call me whenever you hear of something happening to the churches or monasteries. I’m as much your consul as any Greek who knocks on my door.”
I watch my assistant escort the men from my office and immediately call my good friend Mohammed, the owner of a Turkish coffee house in Amsterdam. Mohammed first reached out to me two years ago to help a friend of his who was falsely imprisoned. I came to the aid of the man as I would any Cypriot, and word of my fairness soon spread through the Turkish Cypriot community living in the Netherlands and beyond. Mohammed then became my go-to person for confirmation of who is and is not a true Turkish Cypriot. His wide access to connections both in Cyprus and Turkey provides me with a reliable network to weed out those seeking false citizenship. His in-depth knowledge has never steered me wrong. Although Nicosia would have approved the passports, many of the records were destroyed during the war. If the requesters did not already have identity cards, it was left to our discretion whether or not we should issue passports.
“They are Cypriots, from Agios Iacovos in Cyprus,” he says.
“I knew I could count on you, Mohammed. Hearing your voice reminds me that we have not shared a coffee for some time.”
“My wife and I will visit you and bring boregi [Turkish pastry roll filled with cheese and coated with syrup]. Good day, Madame Consul.”
I forward the request to Nicosia for further verification of their records. There are those who wrongly judge me for going into my own pocket to incur expenses for a position that is unpaid, but I consider it a privilege to serve my country as honorary consul. These men needed a compassionate heart today, and I have contacts in the occupied area of Cyprus now.
My talk with the Turkish Cypriots spurs thoughts about how the looted artifacts might be transported out of Cyprus. The occupied area is free of controls. One can easily travel by boat with contraband into Turkey and from that point gain access to the rest of the world. Cyprus is a small, independent country and most customs officials, when called upon, can’t even pinpoint its location on a map. Most times they see it as an extension of Greece or Turkey. If these artifacts are accompanied by false documents from the Turkish Ministry of Culture made by corrupt officials, the shipment is sure to go through unchallenged.
The injustice of what transpired in Cyprus did not end with the war. Wealthy collectors from around the world lined up like vultures to pick at the bones of our looted land. Now that our cultural heritage is broken into pieces and sold to collectors and museums globally, the story that our ancestors meant for us to see can no longer be told in the same way to future generations. The loss is immeasurable. There is a way to stop the problem. Markets, legal and illegal, exist because there is demand. Without the demand, there is no market.