THE HAGUE, 1999
Socrates said, “It is not living that matters, but living rightly.”
The last several months have been backbreaking, culminating with my recent miscarriage. Losing this baby created an emotional earthquake, forcing me into a reflective state, questioning where I am at this stage of my life and if it is where I wish to be. Tragedy will do that to you. So will turning forty, which will happen in a few weeks. This birthday has found its way into my psyche, demanding that I take immediate inventory. Forty is the age where I should feel that I have “arrived.” On paper, that is proven. In spirit, there is something still missing.
My innate drive to feed my soul with what inspires me has also left a trail of destruction in its path. I can justify all of my actions, both personally and professionally. My intentions are pure with no question or doubt. So what is it that I contribute to these situations that helps to keep me in this bubble of turmoil? Why is my insatiable appetite for justice met with such resistance? Why, when I am on the side of right, can everything feel so wrong and go so wrong at times?
These questions are no longer the relevant ones for me to ponder. Part of me acknowledges that challenges must be overcome, and I battle to rise above them with the force of an ancient warrior. Another part of me understands that there is something in the struggle that I am meant to see and learn from in order to improve myself and become a better human being. It is the dynamic of these two parts that make me whole.
Struggle is what leads us to metamorphosis. Whether it’s the silkworm that twists in a figure-eight position 300,000 times to produce one kilometer of filament or the process of a caterpillar morphing into a beautiful butterfly, it is the process of the journey and who we become in the face of it that matters. I realize that the peace that I am searching for still eludes me, so I commit to taking time to look at why—and pray that I will have the courage to embrace whatever it is I discover. The first step is in recognizing that there is a problem. Up until now I have been busy defending myself, the icons, and surviving one battle after the next. I feel I must step out of the line of fire and into the light of reflection.
My husband and my children have provided fertile ground for me to grow in my roles as entrepreneur, consul, and icon hunter, but they have sacrificed their own desires in the process of supporting mine, allowing me wiggle room as a wife and mother to explore my ambitions. When I am with them I give them my all, but I am not with them as much as they would like me to be. I’m very lucky, in that the miscarriage has brought Michael and me closer, when it could have broken us. The news that I am able to get pregnant helps me overcome my fear of being unable to give Michael another child. This time I will take care of myself. I decide to stop the speeding locomotive train that I’ve been driving before it crashes and can’t get on the tracks again. Taking time out to acknowledge and celebrate my fortieth birthday seems like a good way to begin.
“What do you want?” asks Michael.
I think about it for a few days and decide that what would make me happiest is to celebrate with my parents and thank them for giving me life.
“You are sure this is what you want to do with your fortieth?” he asks again.
“Yes, Michael, and a special dinner with you and friends when I get back.” Just like that, my wish is granted. He will stay home with the children and the nannies so that I will have a complete break from worrying about my responsibilities, and I make arrangements to go to Greece and take my parents with me. This will be their first trip to Athens and an opportunity for me to figure out what I will do with the rest of my life.
The Dutch court, however, is about to hand down its ruling in the Lans case. When we last left off, the MPs posed questions to the Dutch Parliament regarding the selling of looted Cypriot artifacts in Holland, citing the Lans case as a specific example. The MPs questioned why Holland has not invoked the Hague Convention of 1954, being that it is a signatory of the treaty, as are Cyprus and Turkey. Minister Sorgdrager replies that although the Netherlands ratified the treaty, the Parliament has not yet implemented it.1
On February 4, the Rotterdam Court rules against the Church of Cyprus.2 The court rules that the Protocol, in order to be effective in the Netherlands, had to be implemented, which did not happen until 2007. The decision noted that the Church did not succeed in proving that Lans acted in bad faith at the time of acquisition because the price that Lans paid was substantial. Dergazarian was not known as an unreliable dealer at the time and it could not be concluded from the circumstances that Dergazarian collaborated with Van Rijn. The Court dismisses the claims of the Church.
It is devastating news. Polak, whose wife just delivered their daughter on February 2nd, is equally disappointed and shocked by the ruling. He pledges to reach out to a professor of law at Leiden University to get an opinion on whether or not to appeal the decision of the court of Rotterdam. For now, the four icons of the apostles Paul, Peter, Mark, and John looted from the monastery of Antiphonitis will not return to the Church of Cyprus, nor will they be welcomed by the thousands of people who long to pray with them again.3 Instead, they will return to the Lans family.
The Church and I also reach out for a second opinion on the Munich case to Oppenhoff & Radler. We inquire as to whether or not it is possible to provoke a formal decision of the Oberstaatsanwalt Alt regarding the return of the Church artifacts and want to know their opinion on whether or not to contest the decision in the German courts. We inquire as to the cost and length of a civil procedure and whether or not we will have a financial claim against Dikmen as a way to place pressure on him through litigation. Last, we needed to know if it would make sense to litigate against Dikmen in order to effectuate an attachment of the third-party artifacts.4
Arriving directly from the airport at the archbishop’s palace in Cyprus, I am anxious about what condition I will find him in. He appears to be in great health and spirits. The Lans decision was not in our favor but, working quietly behind the scenes, I did manage to cheer him up with the recovery of an icon from the Antiphonitis Church which was discovered in the collection of Ms. Marianna Latsi (daughter of the Greek shipping magnate) several weeks ago. Unknowingly, she had purchased a looted fresco from the Antiphonitis Church (as tipped off by Van Rijn) in Paris from the Greek dealer Dritsoulas. After informing Ms. Latsi, she graciously agreed to return the icon to the Church. The archbishop was very relieved to secure the fresco without a lawsuit.5
“The Lans case is not over yet,” I say. “Let Polak check into whether or not it will be worthwhile to appeal. It just doesn’t make sense how the Dutch court ruled on this.”
“How are you feeling?” he inquires. He is such a remarkable man. Here he is concerned for my well-being when he is faced with a possibly serious health challenge.
“I’m fine, actually, better than fine, and looking forward to taking my parents to Greece. Why don’t you join us?” I ask, half serious. The archbishop laughs and for just a few minutes he is free from worry.
“Your Beatitude, one of the general practioners of the Dutch royal house, a lovely man, has agreed to absolute discretion. We are arranging for you to come to the Netherlands. The details will be handled with the utmost delicacy. Give me a date and leave the rest to me.”
The archbishop is a man who doesn’t normally show his emotions. A man of his position, a leader of so many, cannot show vulnerability because he is the pillar for everyone else to turn to. Now I see the man behind the throne, and it makes me well up with tears to see how relieved he is to hear that he will be taken care of now.
This is a man who has placed his faith in me; now he places his life with me as well. He has come to me with his secret, and it is the greatest honor he could have given me. After everything he has done for me, I want to protect his good name as he has protected mine.
“Go to your parents,” he says. “They will be anxious to see you. And give them my love.”
My parents and I are having a wonderful time touring the Acropolis, built in the fifth century by the statesman Pericles and constructed in honor of the goddess Athena. The environment inspires us to delve further into our Hellenic identity. The sacred rock of the Parthenon built under the creative eye of sculptor Phidias tells the stories that past civilizations left behind for us to marvel at. Even as I stand among these great Greek sculptures while on vacation, I am reminded that the Parthenon Marbles were controversially removed from here and sit in the British Museum. One day I hope to see their return home.
This trip is all about spoiling my parents. I take them to port of Tourkolimano in Piraeus; I find the perfect open-air restaurant, built on a foundation that juts out from the pier into the water with a view of the mountains in the distance. The fishing boats are mixed in with the yachts and sailboats, and the activities of the boaters keep us entertained while we eat small plates of Greek delicacies like grilled calamari, red mullet, rock lobster, and grilled octopus. Sipping ouzo, my parents reminisce about growing up in the village of Mandres.
“She had her eye on me,” my father says. “I was younger and not quite ready to settle down,” he continues. “She was a seamstress and I was a tailor, and our families thought ‘perfect match,’ and here we are,” he says, oozing the natural charm that makes him the ladies man that he is. Even the young waitress flirts with him every time she brings us food. He has an irresistible smile and a character that is like catnip for women.
“You needed me to keep you in line,” she fires back. “I made my own wedding dress,” she tells me with pride. “The entire village celebrated with us for four days. There were several hundred people, Greek and Turkish Cypriots, and we danced for days,” she recalls, smiling. Listening to my parents speak about the traditions of my culture saddens me, in that my own children will not have the same experience when their father and I grow old. Michael was raised in London and I in Cyprus. Now that we have lived abroad for all these years, our customs and traditions have become more Dutch influenced. There is a sadness I feel about not being able to carry forth these traditions in the same homeland that my parents carried them forth, as their parents did before them. It is in the sharing of these stories that I realize they must also be documented and recorded with the same care that the ancient Greeks took when building the Acropolis. The human experience, the narratives that showcase our customs and traditions, must be passed down with equal importance. The people of Cyprus are its most valuable hidden treasures.
“The next day our parents came to look at our sheets to confirm the marriage was consummated,” my mother says, blushing. “That was the tradition,” she adds.
“Then I had to take a chicken and nail it to the front door so that all the men would know to stay away from my wife, also a tradition,” my father says, to the laughter of all three of us.
Sadly, there are no photographs to memorialize these events or our family life together in Cyprus. The war took everything from us, but thankfully we still have each other. As a bright red sun sets in the sky to close this unforgettable day, it appears to slip right into the sea as day turns into dusk. My parents have survived war and still stand, both individually and collectively. It is this example that reinforces the strength within me to finish what I set out to do.
It is our last night in Greece, and despite the fact that I have a queasy stomach, we must celebrate. I have fulfilled my dream to celebrate my birthday by paying tribute to my parents. I have also given myself a time-out to think about where I want to take the next forty years of my life. What I come away with is that I have been living to work and not working to live. There will always be another stolen icon to recover or court case to investigate. Art trafficking is big business, and there are many greedy people in the world who have no qualms about selling someone else’s cultural identity. I throw myself into these challenging situations with abandon, but lately I am under attack for it. You can’t put out a fire when you’re standing in the middle of one.
I wish the conflict with the few civil servants of Cyprus could have been avoided.
I was unable to see it at the time, but I was not willing to stand in Tassos’s or Stella’s shoes and view things from their prospective. When I am in a situation where I do not feel there is a leader present, I take charge. I did not trust in their strategy to bring the icons home to Munich. I had the support of the archbishop and I thought I had the support of the attorney general. Having the backing of both these influential men should have elevated the subject of repatriating our cultural heritage to be above politics, where it belongs.
In the end, the political aspirations of the attorney general and the reluctance of his office and the police to work in parallel with me impeded the return of the looted artifacts found in Dikmen’s possession. In retrospect, I think that being so driven was a mistake. The justice I sought was for my country. I wanted the Turks to pay for what they had done to Cyprus during the war and for their continued occupation. I’m devastated by the disrespect the Turkish military showed my Orthodox faith. To this day the Christians of Cyprus must seek permission to perform religious services in the occupied area. Our religious freedoms are violated daily.
I recognize that if we cannot show each other empathy, regardless of whether we agree with each other’s points of view, religion, culture, traditions or customs, there can be no opportunity for peace and reconciliation.
The Dutch, Greeks, British, Turks, Japanese, Cypriots, and Americans all profited from the destruction of our Cypriot cultural heritage because they fueled a demand for religious and cultural symbols. Greed does not discriminate. It crosses cultural lines and geographical boundaries; it impacts all faiths, nationalities, colors, and creeds. It is something innate in every human being. We can either choose to worship greed or choose to live by a moral code that treasures our cultural past. It is only fitting on my last night in Greece that I set myself completely free from all of these feelings in a way consistent with my culture and tradition.
Breaking plates is a Greek folkloric tradition dating back to medieval times having to do with mourning and loss as well as conspicuous consumption. You must pay for every plate you break and tonight I will do so with pleasure. If I let go of the past, let go of everything negative that has had a grip on me—all the hurt, betrayal and frustration—I will be free and will have a fresh canvas on which to create anew.
We arrive at Syratki Restaurant in Athens, where inside a dimly lit room there is a handful of tables, a stage where a singer backed by drums, guitar, bouzouki, and mandolin perform Rebetiko, a style of urban popular song of the Greeks, especially for the poor class.
“Tsifteteli,” I say, referencing a traditional Anatolian style. The leader acknowledges my request, and the music begins. As I take the center of the floor, people get up and push their tables away from me to give me space to dance. As a girl in Cyprus I danced all the time. I lift my arms up, throw my head back, and cross one leg over the other. I feel the rhythm of the music in every move I make. I dance the story, the story of my life. With each flick of my wrist, snap of my head, swaying of my back, I dance out the pain, anger, fear, disappointment, frustration, happiness, gratitude, and love. Some in the crowd clap and others throw flowers at my feet. With one quick pull I strip the table of its cloth, step onto the chair, then atop the table to dance some more.
My father rises from his chair and makes his way onto the dance floor, where he takes my hand. I step down from the table and join him on the dance floor. We dance together just as we used to around the campfire in Mandres when I was a little girl. Out of the corner of my eye I see my mother’s face, also recalling shared memories. We break plates, dance some more, break plates again, all to the delight of the crowd, which cheers, “Opa!”
Returning to Cyprus a new woman with a new vision, I learn that I am also pregnant. I take this as a gift, even as a sign of my own rebirth. I know that my passion lies in protecting cultural heritage. I want to take the lessons I learned from Cyprus and spread them to the rest of the world so that others may share in the knowledge I have uncovered in the process. However, I need to approach it from a different angle. What the specifics of that path will be, I have not yet imagined.
I am euphoric over the news that I am to give birth again.
“Everything is going to work out this time,” Michael says with the utmost confidence, and I believe him.
In mid-March, a scathing article is released in the Cyprus Weekly written by Attorney General Markides’s brother-in law, George Lanitis. His “journal” professes the attorney general’s innocence in the role he played in the Munich operation and refers to me as a “lone wolf” character that recklessly wasted the Church’s money in my pursuit to recover the stolen artifacts. Every statement is painted with negativity and misrepresents the events surrounding the Munich case as well as the relationship between Van Rijn and me. Lanitis managed to secure a copy of the contract between the Church and Van Rijn and quoted parts of it out of context.6 The archbishop wastes no time in responding to Mr. Lanitis.7 He defends the claims made against me and informs the readers that every move I made was indeed sanctioned by Church and state.
I realize that regardless of how much I forgive and try to move on, some will continue to try to hurt me. All of a sudden, I am right back in the thick of the chaos.
Arriving at the same hospital where I delivered my twins prematurely triggers the ghosts of births past. Because of my age, it is recommended that I get an amniocentesis. I’m five months pregnant now, as Michael takes my arm in his, energetically signaling that he will not let anything happen to me.
“I don’t want you involved with icon hunting anymore.”
“Don’t worry, Michael, as you said, it will all be fine,” I say, trying to reassure him. As I lie on the table and the doctor begins, I realize I am back at the same hospital getting the same test that ultimately led to my delivering my twins prematurely. I hold my breath, begging God to let me have this baby with no complications. We are so anxious waiting for the results we spend a week in Korfu to try to calm ourselves. The test goes perfectly, and we are told that we are having a baby girl!
Arriving back to work is a breeze now that I know all is well with my little girl. The Munich case, however, is still tied up in a knot. The attorney general’s office is still refusing to let us review any of the evidence they put together, and now we have no legal representation in Germany, as David Hole resigns due to a conflict of interest representing both church and state. Markides’s office is also refusing to update us on the case. There is a serious risk of the Church losing control of the 350 artifacts currently in the hands of German police, because we have no idea what is happening with the case.
The attorney general’s office and the Department of Antiquities now claim that, according to “a new law,” the artifacts belong to the state and not to the Church.8 I speak to several experts who contradict this, and I inform the archbishop. I’m dumbfounded by their lack of awareness and fearful that their actions may cause 350 priceless sacred artifacts to be lost forever.9
I write to two law firms: L Papaphilippou and Co. and Tassos Papadopoulos and Associates inquiring about the new antiquities law, I am informed by both firms that no such antiquities law exists. The Church remains the owner of the sacred monuments and artifacts.
In addition, the Church, represented by Polak in the Netherlands, decides to file an appeal in the Lans case.10 Unfortunately, we also lose the appeal due to statute of limitations.
I’m working from home on June third, when ambassador Zenon’s driver delivers a letter to my office at Octagon. My secretary alerts me.
“It looks rather official and its in Greek,” he says. “Shall I drop it off to you now?”
“Yes, please,” I say, wondering what it could be.
“Madame,” it begins, “I wish to inform you that it was decided appropriately that when you receive this letter your title as honorary consul in The Hague and your services are terminated.”11 It continues, “The embassy is informing all the related Dutch authorities and foreign diplomatic missions in Holland. The secretary of the embassy will contact you to deal with the practical issues of stamps and anything to do with your consulate. I was given instructions to thank you on behalf of Cyprus for your services.” It was signed by A. Zenon.
I called the Minister of Foreign Affairs in Cyprus to inquire whether it was his decision to terminate me and I am told that he is in China and will not return for another ten days.
It feels like a blow. I love my work as a volunteer diplomat. I am seven months pregnant, trying to take a leisure day at home to relax with my children, and this happens. I dial Michael at his office, weeping.
“Please come home, Michael.”
He arrives minutes later.
He leaves strict instructions for the nannies, “No calls are to come in here except from the archbishop. Anyone calls from the government, Mrs. Hadjitofi is not available.”
I have my office staff remove the consular sign from the front of my building, the one next to the Octagon Professionals sign, that I once took so much pride in. I instruct my staff to throw the sign in a box, with stationery, stamps, and anything else to do with the position, and deliver it to Ambassador Zenon’s office.
I phone the archbishop and give him the news. “I’m calling the president! They can’t do this to you,” he says.
“Your Beatitude, I’m not interested in returning to the position.”
The same day, the archbishop decides to decorate me with The Order of Saint Barnabas medal right away instead of waiting for the artifacts to return from Munich as it was originally planned. The Cyprus papers read, state dismisses consul while church honors.12
“I will not let them do this to you,” the archbishop says terribly upset.
On July 9, 1999, I receive the Order of Saint Barnabas gold medal. The ceremony is stunning. The Holy Synod created the medal in 1951 to honor individuals who offer their services to their homeland and to the Church of Cyprus.13 The speeches made on my honor are moving. The president of Cyprus attends, my parents are there, and I am completely humbled by the tribute.14
This medal was given to presidents, patriarchs, and I am the first and only woman to ever receive it. The archbishop asks to see me privately in his office.
“Thank you for today. To receive this award is quite special,” I say.
“I’m going to ask that the president see us tomorrow to reinstate you as consul.”
Smiling through my tears I say, “No, it’s over for me.” He pulls open his top drawer and pulls out a letter to the president of Cyprus. I take it from him and say, “This is all I need,” holding up the letter. “To know that you are willing to meet with the president on my behalf,” I say with tears flowing. “This is enough.”
“No, it’s not right what they did to you!” He smiles and says, “By the way, I’m feeling much better. Let’s hold off with the doctor until after the baby is born. If things change, I’ll call you.”
“No memory issues? You’re sure?” I ask.
“Everything is perfect,” he says. “See to your parents.”
My parents are waiting patiently for me in the hallway with Bishop Vasilios. My mother places her hand on my abdomen and says, “An angel is coming,”
Dad hugs me and says, “You’d better hurry before you give birth to that baby on the plane.”
“Your Beatitude, one day we will tell our story.”
The archbishop says, “You promise?”
He likes the idea. I can tell by his smile.
Back in the Netherlands, the Association of Consuls in Holland throws a celebration to honor me, and more than six hundred people turn out. I purchase cups and fill them with sweets from Paphos, and under a picture of a broken fresco I have text inscribed to say, “The story they tell is the story of every refugee. Tasoula Hadjitofi—A refugee from Famagusta.” It was another magical moment.
I have more important things to look forward to in my life. At the doctor’s office for a scheduled checkup a couple of weeks later, my blood pressure is too high and I am diagnosed with gestational diabetes. The baby is positioned low, and the umbilical cord has wrapped itself around her neck. I’m admitted into the hospital and placed on bed rest.
“Why is this happening to us?” I ask Michael, who has just arrived.
“Relax, I’m glad you are here, and now you will rest without a doubt.”
Because of my history I am kept in the hospital for several weeks until the baby is due. It is September 9, 1999, and I feel as if I am ready to burst. I’m dilating very slowly and want to deliver this baby today. On my way downstairs to get an epidural, I notice that the emergency room is packed with pregnant women. “What are all these women doing here?” I ask the nurse.
“Today is 9/9/99, and if you are born this day you will receive a letter from the queen. All these ladies are here to get their letter.” My doctor arrives to deliver, but instead of a baby I receive an apology: “I’m afraid I won’t be able to take you until tomorrow.”
Michael arrives at my room with champagne in hand, but our celebration will have to wait. The morning of the tenth things are still slow going. “Please, anyone, give me an epidural,” I cry. A doctor, who is not my gynecologist, decides to wheel me down to the emergency room so that I may be given one.
“You still have a long way to go,” she says as she breaks my water and sends me for an epidural. A junior nurse over to stay with me. Shortly thereafter, I feel a sharp pain and the baby moving. “Michael! The baby is coming!”
“Hold on, darling, we’re in the emergency room hallway, she can’t be coming! The doctor just said it will take time.”
I’m moving about in every direction, unable to find a comfortable position, and Michael can hardly keep me from jumping off the table. “She’s coming!” I yell, to the dismay of people in the emergency room watching television. I’m sweating, then I’m cold, then a pain comes, so I scream, “She’s coming!” Finally, I let out a gut-wrenching cry, open my legs, and realize everyone is watching me now instead of the television.
Michael and the nurse look at me, and then each other. “Oh my God!” they both cry out for support at the same time and then the nurse helps me deliver right there in the middle of the emergency room. My daughter Marina is in such a rush to come into this world that she left her placenta inside and they wheel me to the operating room to have it removed. Marina is handed to Michael, who gets to bond with her first as I am rushed off to surgery. He is able to step into that priceless moment normally reserved for mother and child. It is love at first sight for Michael and very fitting that he would be blessed with this honor.
Marina is healthy, happy, and obviously raring to go! It is overwhelming for me. After all this time, the number of attempts and disappointments, my miracle baby has arrived. Marina’s birth is also my time to be reborn. One look at her gorgeous little face and I know everything is about to change for the better.
When we return home from the hospital, Sophia is delighted to see her new baby sister and Andreas is quite the big brother. No longer having to worry about my consulship, I indulge myself in motherhood. Yes, of course, I’m still working diligently on Munich and the Lans case and my business, but I keep my word to myself and to Michael to slow down. Giving birth to Marina at this later stage in life affords me the financial security to focus my undivided attention on the children and Michael now. Each day is a gift to me as I leave the day-to-day management of Octagon to care for my newborn.
FEBRUARY 2000, NICOSIA, CYPRUS
Sitting in the archbishop’s office with my baby Marina strapped to my chest, I compose a press release, which says that the archbishop will be traveling to the Netherlands tomorrow to meet with the Church’s attorney, Polak, and with Church representative Tasoula Hadjitofi to discuss the pending Munich and Lans cases. I instruct the archbishop’s secretary to hold off sending the press release to the media until long after we board the plane.
By the time Cyprus wakes up, the archbishop will be safely in the Netherlands under the care of one of the royal house physicians. The last couple of months I have noticed a change in him. If there is something more seriously wrong, we will know by the end of this week.
The archbishop is taken to see Professor W. A. “Pim” van Gool, a professor of neurology with special reference to dementias at the Academic Medical Center in Amsterdam. Of all the people who might run this impressive unit, Pim van Gool happens to be Polak’s brother-in-law. Fate intercedes in our favor once again.
I use my business contacts to further protect the archbishop’s identity. I rent several rooms at the Kasteel De Wittenburg, a private boutique establishment in Wassenaar, off the beaten path, in case any reporters are in search of him.
I hire a driver to chauffeur us to various doctor’s appointments and labs for testing. The archbishop naps in the middle of the day, and in the evening I prepare lavish home-cooked meals, inviting a close-knit circle of discreet friends to join us.
The archbishop is diagnosed with memory loss, probably Alzheimer’s disease.
“Tasoula, I’m going to need your help,” the archbishop tells me.
From this point on, I travel to Cyprus every six weeks with a doctor from the Netherlands, and we bring a supply of his medication from Holland, labeled in Dutch, to prevent people from figuring out that he is in the beginning stages of dementia.
“I want to know details about what is coming, when my judgment will be impaired, as I want to abdicate before that point. I will need your help to do that,” he says. This is a cruel blow. Putting everything else aside—the icons, the Munich and Lans cases—this man is family to me, a father figure who has given me unconditional support. To know that I will be slowly losing him to a dreadful disease with no cure leaves me with the thought that nothing is permanent, that when we are lucky enough to have someone in our lives whom we cherish, someone who is remarkable in every way, we must never take them for granted.
APRIL 2000, EASTER IN CYPRUS
The archbishop will lead the Easter service, and we will be christening Marina the following day.
The Easter service is especially meaningful to me this year. As the archbishop says the words we all long to hear, “Christos Anesti,” I stomp my feet and yell “Christos Anesti” with a new passion. It gives me chills to be here and I feel, in a way, that I have had my own resurrection. I will continue to work with the Church to recover the stolen artifacts, but not at the expense of my health and family. The archbishop must follow suit.
When all the files are scrutinized in years to come, they will see that it was a refugee of war, an archbishop, and an art dealer-turned-informant who put Aydin Dikmen in jail temporarily and recovered more than five thousand sacred artifacts from Cyprus and around the world. As a refugee in search of her identity, I felt empowered becoming involved in protecting cultural heritage. Repatriating the artifacts helped me to reclaim what was rightfully mine. Now I invite other refugees to walk with me and become a Cultural Crime Watcher. Every piece of cultural history tells a story and although we all ultimately have different stories to tell we must see the bigger picture and rebuild our future with the ruins of our past.
On Easter Monday, the day after Easter Sunday, we travel to the Royal Monastery of Kykkos, one of the most famous in Cyprus and where the monks still live in isolation. Located on the far edge of the Troodos Mountains, in one of the most picturesque spots on the island; it is the place where men stand guard at President Makarios III’s tomb. It lies on top of the mountains overlooking Cyprus.
Before the ceremony, I watch the archbishop and Marina share a special connection all their own as he holds her and talks with her playfully. He makes the sign of the cross on the crown of her head, the bottoms of her feet, and in the palms of her hands, enticing her to giggle. Watching the two of them pleases me so. My beautiful daughter grabs for his emblem and smiles at him. He responds in kind, and this moment is forever etched in my mind. As he begins the ceremony to bring Marina into the Orthodox world, I feel grateful to be celebrating this moment, my culture, and traditions in my homeland. This is the image that I hold onto when I think of him, a snapshot lodged in my memory of the great man that he was. It is symbolic that as we proclaim the resurrection of Christ, the christening of my daughter into the Orthodox religion, that my faith is also reborn.