The Camel Rock of Varosha

from the tip of the tongue at the Glossa Beach front towards the sea horizon there is a rock in the shape of a camel

not visible on Google Earth

to the rock and back they used to swim a kilometer then in their youth to claim the swimmer crown

these Varoshians – not visible on Google Earth

to the rock and back they swim the same kilometer now in their desire to return to claim the sea-kissed life again

resilience – not visible on Google Earth

to the past and back I swim through the waves of memory cannot reach the rock yet

to the past and the future I swim through the waves of dreams
cannot reach the peace poem at the tip of the tongue yet

the city now is crumbling the sea always wins you are at the seamark of hope for sustainable rebuilding

– not visible on Google Earth yet

Nafia Akdeniz

The Barbed Tongue

look at your own feet, know where you stand you stand at a barbed tongue of an island sea-ty hidden under the sand

the sea ebbs and flows shows the beached remnants of life sea-born moves the people of the land like grains of sand removes the barb of a conquering military mind

indifferent to the border, the political order of things indifferent to barbaric attire, this barbed wire indifferent to past or whoever is passing the sea is indifferent, take a step in

look at your own feet, know where you stand you stand at a barbed tongue of an island sea-ty falling behind

welcome – you too shall pass

pass knowing where you stand at the medieval suburbs of the walled glory the sea-tizens are forced to leave by approaching bombs the homes are fenced off to host the army for decades long

ghost city they say, not knowing the sea-tizens dream on they live elsewhere to return one day they dream on you shall know you stand where they come to dream on dream with them to revive the sea-ty for all of us this time around

take a step out of the sea and sit for a coffee where you sit now used to be a fish tavern the Faliron of Varosi and the ancient port of the Athenian Sea look at your feet when it’s time to walk, walk onwards in the sea-ty

Don Quixote is right ahead on the wall in his solitude awaiting to meet you through the painter’s window of the Blue Bungalow the blue of the sea will look through you too balancing the weight of eternal dreams and memories in a backpack

Nafia Akdeniz

Golden Grains of Memory

“take off your shoes and walk to the sea,” I said to my son he was the same age I left my city – seven

I stayed at the shore in the shoes of my mother watched the sons walking in the golden grains

did not have the towel my mother had waiting for me to come off the water and walk back

never needed that towel, the sand fell off my feet by itself never dirt, never mud, not like any other playground

“OK, come to me now,” I said to my son he came off the water and walked back he came off my memory and claimed the fact he came off my childhood and became himself

there we were – seven, forty-seven his feet were clean, cleaned the wound of my aching soul my son inheriting this gold for generations long never dirt, never mud, not like any other passing on

no need for towel –

Nafia Akdeniz

Meditation in the City Garden

a sole sound of a bird – breaks through my wuthering mind as sole as the last call of the last bird Kauai emplacing the mist of thoughts in the garden of Varosi

I sit here to meditate under the fig tree stretching my feet to the street of Democracy stretching, as if to a dry bed of a once roaring river opening a mouth to tell a story, then flowing into the sea

what a river is to a forest is what a street is to a city what is this hostage place in ruins to me, to you to its people displaced abruptly from the flow? what can this new asphalt open in a closed city?

it is the power of nature that opens the cracks where the asphalted memories come to light it is Varoshians that keep the attachment strong where the homeplace in the heart never collapses

a sole motif of a bird – was decorated here with oranges for the festive days flying from the archaic times to this garden and perched lost at the unexpected loss of those festivities

as delicate as the Edelweiss, the hope to regain remains in the ruins of the café that the white flower names it was the setting for the first experiences of the youth their first smoke, their first flirt, even their very first kiss

I meditate on the idea of connecting the lion of Famagusta to the botanic name of this flower Leontopodium a sudden zephyr in the garden disconnects the flags from the covered name of the Greek Gymnasium

it keeps blowing in the ruins of the Café Boccaccio turning the pages of a hundred stories in the Decameron a book of reflections on the values of the Renaissance reflected in the agenda of the café’s small parliament

a sole sound of the piano – from the Greek Lyceum of Art, preluded the band marching in the street parade of Democracy, then the trees in the garden compose the music live today

the athletes in the Stadium used to train to pass the torch, of the then everlasting continuity flame between ancient and modern, between past and present is the future of this city an extinguished flame?

a sole sound of a bird – as sole as the last call of the last Varoshians a call for justice in the name of humanity in the name of revival and life’s continuity

Nafia Akdeniz

A Cypriot Kind of Glimpse

you can’t go there, the police warned me I’m just looking I said and firmed my feet on the ground kept stretching my head towards Evagorou Avenue to get a glimpse of the municipal market’s façade,
the Agora of Varosi, a place of the commons

a diagonal look from the Singer shop corner and my mind trespassed the forbidden zone, a Cypriot kind of stretching over all kinds of borders rusty barrels, barbed wires, dark holes and dead ends to get a kind of glimpse of possible bridges to unite the long-desired return with the future re-settlement

the agricultural mosaic of the city that market was then, the main supplier for the local public and the foreign now, you can’t go there the police repeated my head returned to its unstretched posture, checking if I can lean on the wall at the same corner to stay a little longer at this junction of memory and wonder

fresh groceries from the villages still smelling of wet soil a mixture of spicy herbals, sweet fruits, crunchy roots the souvlaki smoke pulling shoppers in to satisfy their hunger, the fountain at Afxentiou Street, was there to cool the summer heat and the sweat of intensive labour, an oasis in the city I wish I could take as shelter

you can’t go there —

imagining the Agora revealed the aromas of my memory I listed them one by one, like ‘my favourite things’ imagined at the times of disappointment and grief like in the musical from the 60s ‘The Sound of Music’, it used to play at Hatjihambi, the cinema in ruins only darkness is on show now, light is long-awaited

the source of enlightenment was the public library shining on the artworks too in the upper-floor gallery, the cultural and intellectual mosaics of affluent life
formed then to bring this city ahead of its time, the war came and shattered this trajectory progress shines today on the shards of the broken

hope collectors safeguard the remnants of mutual care mutual understanding of loss, injustice and open wounds, ‘in culture we trust’, we trust in a shared sense of Cyprus, over the rusty barrels, barbed wires, dark holes, dead ends a Cypriot kind of glimpse of the shared sense of the future

can we go there? —

Nafia Akdeniz