Flying the flag: the northern part of Nicosia has become increasingly Turkish in character
It’s a balmy evening in Cyprus, and a town called Morphu is holding a fundraising event. Several hundred people sit at trestle tables, eating pork kebabs and listening to a bazouki band. The mayor of the town, elected every year by the community, wanders around shaking hands. Yet no one here actually lives in Morphu. As Greek Cypriots, these people were expelled from their town in 1974. The party is in Nicosia, the Cypriot capital. Images of Morphu’s civic buildings are painted on a canvas to the left of the stage, and photos of the town are projected onto a giant screen.
Cyprus was once part of the British empire—on 1st October, the island will celebrate its 50th anniversary of independence. But the years following 1960 were marked by unrest and violence between the ethnic Greek population and the ethnic Turkish minority. In 1974, in response to a Greek-backed military coup, Turkey invaded to protect the Turkish Cypriots, occupying about 40 per cent of the island and in effect partitioning it into a Turkish Cypriot north and a Greek Cypriot south. Tens of thousands of refugees were created on both sides, and the division has persisted ever since. In 1983, the north declared itself to be the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC), but only Turkey recognises it as a state. (With no extradition treaties, northern Cyprus is a haven for fugitives such as Asil Nadir.)
Despite decades of intermittent peace negotiations, the psychological barriers between the communities are greater than ever. For Greek Cypriots, the military action of 1974 constituted a brutal invasion and occupation. To Turkish Cypriots, it was a peace operation that saved them from genocide. In the south, children are taught that their homeland is a Greek island to which Turkish Cypriots have only a negligible claim. In the north, history is such a sensitive subject that textbooks have been frequently rewritten by successive administrations—until 2004, children learned that Greek Cypriots had displayed “savagery and barbarism” of a kind “the world has seldom seen.” Turkish Cypriots call the north the TRNC; Greek Cypriots refer to it as an illegal “pseudo-state.”
The problem is compounded by the “Turkification” of northern Cyprus. Since 1974, Turkey has encouraged its citizens to settle there. Though figures are disputed, the north may now hold more people from Turkey (165,000) than Turkish Cypriots (149,000). This demographic change has slowly transformed its social and ethnic character. The northern part of Nicosia (the capital is also split along ethnic lines)seems more and more like another country—one in which the heavy hand of the Turkish military is unmistakable. Public spaces display statues of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, father of modern Turkey, while a vast Turkish flag (illuminated at night) is painted on a mountainside to the north of the city. And Turkish “settlers,” aware the reunification of Cyprus would lead to their repatriation, vote for hardline nationalists, who now dominate the northern parliament and make the search for a political solution infinitely more complicated.
Reunification appeared to be within reach in 2004, in the form of a UN-sponsored plan. In a referendum, Turkish Cypriots voted overwhelmingly in favour of the deal—but Greek Cypriots rejected it by a comparably large margin, feeling it was too pro-Turkish. Since then no other comprehensive proposal has been put forward. President Demetris Christofias and his Turkish Cypriot counterpart, Dervis Eroglu, hold frequent meetings, but have made little progress on the issues of property, the rights of refugees to return, or the demilitarisation of the north. Turkey, the real power in northern Cyprus, seems unlikely to withdraw its 30,000 troops. A Cyprus solution has long been a precondition for Turkish membership of the EU but that prize seems ever more distant.
Morphu exile Orania Beladare maintains that her son, born in Nicosia after 1974, is a refugee: “He will always be a refugee and so will his children.” Her insistence that this status is hereditary does not stem only from sentiment. The children of male refugees can claim up to €40,000 in government aid towards the cost of their first home. A bill is before parliament to extend this right to the children of female refugees. If passed, it would mean that in 50 years’ time, eight out of ten Greek Cypriots would be entitled to the same benefits. This alone would be a strong incentive to reject future plans to reunify the island.
Yiannis Papadakis, a Greek Cypriot anthropologist, says the two sides are suffering from “ethnic autism,” a condition in which “ethnic groups become so absorbed by their own pain and misery that they cannot see the pain of others and they cannot imagine themselves having caused it.” As long as Cypriot identity is chained to the words “Greek” or “Turkish,” it’s hard to imagine a day when the island might be reunited. It appears, then, that the municipality of Morphu will be operating out of its Nicosia offices for some years to come.
It’s a balmy evening in Cyprus, and a town called Morphu is holding a fundraising event. Several hundred people sit at trestle tables, eating pork kebabs and listening to a bazouki band. The mayor of the town, elected every year by the community, wanders around shaking hands. Yet no one here actually lives in Morphu. As Greek Cypriots, these people were expelled from their town in 1974. The party is in Nicosia, the Cypriot capital. Images of Morphu’s civic buildings are painted on a canvas to the left of the stage, and photos of the town are projected onto a giant screen.
Cyprus was once part of the British empire—on 1st October, the island will celebrate its 50th anniversary of independence. But the years following 1960 were marked by unrest and violence between the ethnic Greek population and the ethnic Turkish minority. In 1974, in response to a Greek-backed military coup, Turkey invaded to protect the Turkish Cypriots, occupying about 40 per cent of the island and in effect partitioning it into a Turkish Cypriot north and a Greek Cypriot south. Tens of thousands of refugees were created on both sides, and the division has persisted ever since. In 1983, the north declared itself to be the Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus (TRNC), but only Turkey recognises it as a state. (With no extradition treaties, northern Cyprus is a haven for fugitives such as Asil Nadir.)
Despite decades of intermittent peace negotiations, the psychological barriers between the communities are greater than ever. For Greek Cypriots, the military action of 1974 constituted a brutal invasion and occupation. To Turkish Cypriots, it was a peace operation that saved them from genocide. In the south, children are taught that their homeland is a Greek island to which Turkish Cypriots have only a negligible claim. In the north, history is such a sensitive subject that textbooks have been frequently rewritten by successive administrations—until 2004, children learned that Greek Cypriots had displayed “savagery and barbarism” of a kind “the world has seldom seen.” Turkish Cypriots call the north the TRNC; Greek Cypriots refer to it as an illegal “pseudo-state.”
The problem is compounded by the “Turkification” of northern Cyprus. Since 1974, Turkey has encouraged its citizens to settle there. Though figures are disputed, the north may now hold more people from Turkey (165,000) than Turkish Cypriots (149,000). This demographic change has slowly transformed its social and ethnic character. The northern part of Nicosia (the capital is also split along ethnic lines)seems more and more like another country—one in which the heavy hand of the Turkish military is unmistakable. Public spaces display statues of Mustafa Kemal Ataturk, father of modern Turkey, while a vast Turkish flag (illuminated at night) is painted on a mountainside to the north of the city. And Turkish “settlers,” aware the reunification of Cyprus would lead to their repatriation, vote for hardline nationalists, who now dominate the northern parliament and make the search for a political solution infinitely more complicated.
Reunification appeared to be within reach in 2004, in the form of a UN-sponsored plan. In a referendum, Turkish Cypriots voted overwhelmingly in favour of the deal—but Greek Cypriots rejected it by a comparably large margin, feeling it was too pro-Turkish. Since then no other comprehensive proposal has been put forward. President Demetris Christofias and his Turkish Cypriot counterpart, Dervis Eroglu, hold frequent meetings, but have made little progress on the issues of property, the rights of refugees to return, or the demilitarisation of the north. Turkey, the real power in northern Cyprus, seems unlikely to withdraw its 30,000 troops. A Cyprus solution has long been a precondition for Turkish membership of the EU but that prize seems ever more distant.
Morphu exile Orania Beladare maintains that her son, born in Nicosia after 1974, is a refugee: “He will always be a refugee and so will his children.” Her insistence that this status is hereditary does not stem only from sentiment. The children of male refugees can claim up to €40,000 in government aid towards the cost of their first home. A bill is before parliament to extend this right to the children of female refugees. If passed, it would mean that in 50 years’ time, eight out of ten Greek Cypriots would be entitled to the same benefits. This alone would be a strong incentive to reject future plans to reunify the island.
Yiannis Papadakis, a Greek Cypriot anthropologist, says the two sides are suffering from “ethnic autism,” a condition in which “ethnic groups become so absorbed by their own pain and misery that they cannot see the pain of others and they cannot imagine themselves having caused it.” As long as Cypriot identity is chained to the words “Greek” or “Turkish,” it’s hard to imagine a day when the island might be reunited. It appears, then, that the municipality of Morphu will be operating out of its Nicosia offices for some years to come.
