Pilgrimage to Apostle Andreas

By Christiana Petroudi, Philologist:

November 23rd. Morning awakening from 5:30, as a big day stretched out in front of us. At exactly 7:00, 3 crowded buses depart from the church of Ayia Napa to Apostolos Andreas, at the easternmost tip of our Cyprus.

Mixed and strange feelings about what we would face. It has been 10 years since the borders were opened. When I first started I was a teenager, now I would go more mature and aware.

From our genuflections, our parents and the school take care to nurture us with lime the desire to return to our favorite cities and villages. I remember our notebooks in elementary school being decorated behind very characteristic occupied landscapes. Our cellos are suffocatingly full of photos of Morphou, Salamis, Kyrenia, Bellapais, the castle of Kantara, the beach of Famagusta with the hotels, etc. All these are deeply rooted in us, down to the marrow. Through the stories of our grandparents and parents, we also learned to love them, we also feel that we know every bit of this land of ours, our condemnation.

So my biggest fear, crossing the border, was that I felt absolutely nothing about the place I would see, that I felt completely foreign. But that is not possible, I said to myself. After he taught me to love them, to sing about them and to break my heart, to say Famagusta and for my soul to flutter. Would I feel all this?

God willing, we cross the roadblock with a little hassle, until the identity check is completed, always with the stereotypical whining and complaints of every Cypriot who crosses the border. And our great journey has just begun.

The first city you meet, our favorite Famagusta. Turkish flags everywhere and flags of the pseudo-state, Turkish signs everywhere. The heart tightens, it feels anger and pain. The heart cries, along with the eyes. They Turkified everything. This is the harsh reality and it hurts a lot.

We proceed around Famagusta to Apostolos Barnabas, Salamina and Bogazi to take the old road that leads to Apostolos Andreas. The tour guide, who was very knowledgeable about the history of the occupied territories, explained everything to us.

The growth that emerged before us was proverbial. Houses-palaces, modern architecture, big shops, luxurious casinos, traffic everywhere, people… First dramatic finding: Life here goes well without us. As the guide explained to us, as we saw huge buildings but for years unfinished it is that they are trying to cement the place in order to cement the situation in their favor. But how is it possible for all this to be returned to us, we wondered? Now they have set up their lives just fine here. Emotions had set up a crazy dance inside me, I did not know what to protonize.

Turning to the old road to Apostolos, if I'm not mistaken, the first church we met was that of Panagia Kanakaria, with its huge mosaics in value. Going along the route, one village spread after another. I do not even remember the names, except for the most famous villages. The only thing that has been imprinted in my mind is the same scenario. Another world here, as in the villages and especially of Karpasia, there are many settlers. Houses very old, obviously our homes before 1974, with few new additions. The main church dominates in the center of each village, ruined, without a cross and a broken bell tower, even brutally looted. Almost always next to the main church dominates an imposing mosque with its minarets, thus symbolizing our two different worlds, next to each other.

Scattered around the villages we saw other churches of great architecture, which still stand, either arrogant or half-ruined, to remind the Greekness of the place. Scottish shower my feelings. On the one hand the pain to pierce your heart mercilessly, on the other my biggest fear was verified, to see everything passively, as a stranger. Sometimes I found myself feeling like a tourist, obeying the instructions of the guide, looking at a right and left landscapes that I saw for the first time in my life and for which I was ordered from a cot to feel a lot. But sometimes I felt like I was in another country. This was happening, I justified it inside me, because I was seeing them again in the photo, behind a window of a bus. I did not step on the ground, I did not smell the air.

After a journey of about two and a half hours, we arrive at Apostolos Andreas for our great pilgrimage. Shortly before we pass the first gate, the guide asks the driver for a short stop to turn our gaze to our right and gaze at the most beautiful beach of Cyprus, telling teasingly to the Agianapites, who were the majority of the passengers, not to look at them. But he was not wrong. A pristine beach, with golden sandy kilometers and behind it stretches a green hill. The sun shining over the clear blue waters, completed the enchanting scenery, which had kept us all ecstatic for a few minutes. What can they do to you in just a few minutes, what can you do first!

The guide instructed the driver to proceed and in two to three minutes the monastery appeared in front of us. We have finally reached the "moutti" of our Karpasia! Facing the dilapidated monastery for the first time, your heart broke. We were just a week away from the feast of the Apostle Andrew. Otherwise my grandfather taught me. The monastery should now be full of people, from pilgrims who flooded it from every corner of the island. Laothalassa should be here. Everywhere buvamara, desolation, abandonment.

As we entered, the 150 and put on pilgrims, along with the three priests, we had a small Resurrection. Resurrection in our souls too! The priests began the divine service with intensity and deep emotion. The church shone with the dozens of candles and the flashes of the machines. For only a few minutes our Apostle Andreas was our convict. The police of the pseudo-state did not bother us at all. Singing together at the end of "I Fight for the Victorious General", other pilgrims arrive at the monastery, coming from Paphos, as we were told, and we all joined our voices together to reach our goal as high as possible.

Then, we headed to the sanctuary which is by the sea. We climbed the rocks that were hit by the wave. I wanted to suck the last drop of sea water, I wanted to fill my lungs with all the air of Karpasia, I wanted to stay there forever! The voices of the guides woke me up from the sweet drunkenness and I had to leave with a heavy heart, as ours did 39 years ago.

Leaving the Apostle behind us, we also left a part of our soul. Now we would take the new road, which was less tiring and to see as many villages as possible. We made a stop at the trapped Greek Cypriot Giannakis to eat and rest.

Our next stop is Agios Therissos or Thirsos according to the Carpathian idiom. We set the same scenario again. Hymns, candles, emotion! Our last stop before returning was the village of Agia Triada. There I also had a vow to fulfill. A little soil for the grave of my glued grandfather, who had died the day before and came from the Holy Trinity. The church is very well maintained, since it is normally operated by the caged people of the village. Just before the service is over, I go out to find the soil I promised. Fortunately, at a short distance, I find red soil. I dip my hand deep into the field and my handful overflows. Before I put it in my bag, I smelled it. My God, I thought, did you reserve this tragic fate for us? Is every refugee who dies contented with a handful of soil from his village?

The darkness had cast its nets early, which forced us to stumble upon the program, since we had already gone out of schedule. So from Famagusta we would cross only the old city through the walls and just outside the closed city. Unfortunately we would not have time to go down to a church.

Entering the developed side of the city again, a child who apparently had just woken up, says in a loud voice. "Mom, did we finally get to Ayia Napa?" and immediately jerky laughter broke out all over the bus. The child was not wrong either. The city was buzzing with life, dazzling lights everywhere, shops, people, traffic! On the right, the guide tells us, is a large university, of the "Eastern Mediterranean", as they called it, next to it are the dormitories. The students gave another breath to this part of the city. Cafes, restaurants were bustling with youth. These children, I thought, they knew this place, they loved this place. They were carefree on a Saturday afternoon, simple everyday moments were unfolding in front of us. Again everything is mixed up inside me. They knew this place, but they deprived me of this place. This is our Famagusta, the nearest town to my village. I would do it all here, if she was free!

The darkness had begun to oppose us for good. The old walls without lighting were difficult to see clearly. We passed the gate and the guide made us explain that the Turkish Cypriots lived here before 1974. On the left, he tells us, is the famous Othello tower that inspired Shakespeare for his novel of the same name. On the right, in the background, the imposing cathedral of Agios Nikolaos. We only managed to see a figure of him as the bus was moving.

Leaving the walls, we headed around the closed city. From here the town hall, the hospital, the courts, the High School. A! I know this way, I thought! We, the people of Anorthosis, also asked for a pass from our legendary GSE, but as the guide explained to us, we were already too late and we had to return. Another time, he told us. Another time, I said to myself. I will be back to Famagusta soon! I want to see them all, to suck them under the sunlight. To go everywhere. To walk the beach of Famagusta, to go to Salamina, to Apostolos Barnabas, to Agios Nikolaos inside the walls, to the G.S.E. Everywhere!

Returning home, after a long, tiring physical and mental journey, I tried to put my thoughts in order. What problem should I, my God, have with these people I met today in Famagusta and in the other villages? People who enjoyed their daily life in the cafe of Agia Triada, in the cafes of Famagusta. Maybe we all do not have the same sufferings and misery? So I have absolutely no problem with the people, in this case the Turkish Cypriots and the settlers. It is with injustice that I do not do so well. This is what I can not tolerate and not people. We Greek Cypriots have a difficult fight ahead of us. Of course we all want the good of our homeland. A little bit of the problems of our daily life, a little bit of the financial crisis that has taken us all down, a little bit of the deadlocked talks and the wrecks of the negotiations all these years, have made us a bit pessimistic and maybe lazy about our struggle for liberation. There are no more or less patriots in this struggle. Everyone, depending on their temperament, proposes what their own logic imposes on them, maybe even emotion.

The first school of thought proposes political realism. Let us save what is saved. In the face of the impending threat of final division and the possible annexation of our occupied territories to Turkey, they choose the view of realism, even though this solution is blatantly unfair to us Greek Cypriots.

The second school of thought, to which I belong, the most ethereal, wants all or nothing. I can not put my own signature on a perpetual injustice. At least the current status quo is illegal, they do not have a political entity. I can not accept back mutilated Famagusta, crammed into the confines of a closed city. For me this is not Famagusta. I can not accept the return of Varosiotis and not Keryneiotis. Either all or none. This approach to full liberation, we know very well, is groundless at this stage. You will tell me that only war can do this, something that as peaceful people we are, we do not want, nor do we have the military strength to achieve. But the weather is shooting. In 100, in 200, in 300, in 1000 years. You do not know how life brings them. History, however, has taught us that nothing stays the same forever. We have seen whole empires fall and disappear.

It is our duty to nurture our own children and the children of our children and all subsequent generations, with the unquenchable desire to return to our ancestral homes, our churches and our monuments. And if Mr. Eroglou provocatively waves his finger at us and tells us Greek Cypriots to abandon the ghost, to return to the situation before 74, we answer that our ghosts will become Erinyes and will hover over their heads, until the day when the insult they committed against us will be turned into their own, for the purification to take place in our souls.