Having been away from
home for a couple of weeks I find myself at a familiar stage in the cycle of
wandering: feeling homesick for some of the routines and background noises of
life back there. Routines can be replicated, albeit with a few compromises –
such as going for a walk instead of cross-training at the expensive gym – but there
is no Radio 4 to enlighten my mornings and no Channel 4 News to lend structure
to my evenings. Hence, sitting yesterday
in warm winter sunshine on the terrace of a simple beach-side cafe with the
Mediterranean sea lapping gently three feet below my feet I found it easy to
forget, for a while, that there’s a whole world of nasty, tangled politics out
there. I also found it easy to order another (quite unnecessary) glass of red, encouraged,
perhaps, by the lady at the next table who looked to be about my age and was
working her way, with stylish nonchalance, through a whole carafe of white, while
reading a novel.
But sooner or later something
happens to awaken you from the reverie of la
dolce vita. In this instance it was a visit to Nicosia (or Lefkosa,
depending on your cultural heritage) where I could not resist the intrigue of
crossing the border into the Turkish-occupied northern half of the city although,
in the end, the experience turned out to be both dismal and laughable. Imagine
showing your passport twice, on the same street, to first the Cypriot Cypriot then
the Turkish Cypriot authorities (all of them bored) then, after an hour or so
of innocent sightseeing, repeating the performance in reverse. Nicosia is the
world’s only divided capital city and one has to ask what the point of it is. Talks
are under way to expedite the reunion of the island but, with the latest news
from Turkey that the despotic Erdogan has arrested yet another of his hapless
citizens for the “crime” of insulting him, I have limited expectations as to
the outcome.
In 1974, just 14 years
after the British ceded governance of Cyprus back to its inhabitants, Turkish
troops invaded the island. I don’t know exactly why, but Cyprus does have a
history of being coveted by regional powers – Greeks, Persians, Ptolemies,
Romans, Byzantines, Franks, Venetians, Ottomans and British. It seems it’s the
price you pay for having valuable natural resources, a strategic geographical
location and a small, defenceless population. Still, you might think that after
such a long history of cultural inter-mingling present-day Cypriots would be
quite comfortable with the concept: but, despite the strong, positive faction that
is working for reunion as a federal republic, there is much evidence on the
ground that the indigenous Greeks and Turks prefer to retain the identities of
their respective mainland forebears. Even the death this week of George
Michael, born and bred in north London, had Greek Cypriots claiming him as one
of their own. I’m not sure the Turks are much concerned.
Religious ardour must surely take a good deal of the blame for the
inclination of both sides to insist upon their separate identities: the
influence is everywhere to be seen in the scale, prominence and proliferation
of places of worship. Even the smallest chapels I have been into are richly
decorated with what appears to be gold. And in Nicosia, in the grounds of the
Archbishopric, stands a big glass-sided ‘garage’ inside which are displayed two
extravagant, stretched limousines – one Mercedes, the other Cadillac – which
were the chariots of the revered Archbishop Makarios, the first President of
the Republic. I detect clear signs here of a universal phenomenon: the
systematic appropriation of wealth and power by a religious organisation, and
agree with Woody Allen who quipped If God
exists, I hope he has a good excuse. It all seems a world away from the
beach-bar bubble.
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