After the visit of the 3 churches in Alaniçi I went to a coffeeshop in the middle of the village to find out more about the background of the extensive graffiti on those churches, mentioning EOKA, ENOSIS and more signs of a cruel past and ethnic cleansing in Cyprus. It was easy to get in contact with some elderly locals. They explained that they originated from villages in the Larnaka region, now in Southern Cyprus. When the Turks came to the rescue of the Turkish Cypriots in 1974, many Greek Cypriots flew to the south while Turkish Cypriots flew to the north.
It was a traumatic event where many inhabitants from both sides had to leave not just their possessions but also the neighbourhoods and the lands they deeply loved. Greek Cypriots have been mourning loud and clear ever since, asking back their belongings and the lands of their ancestors. The Turkish Cypriots have been mourning too, about a lost past. As their safety was at stake in the period of the conflict, they had no interest to go back to where they came from after 1974. They helt no political lobby and just mourned in silence. See also my blog about different perspectives on heritage between the north and the south.
Alaniçi (Peristerona Pigi) was originally a mixed village, with Cypriots of Greek and Turkish background. But already long before 1974, no more Turkish Cypriots lived in this village, an old man told me. They went to neighbourhoods further in the fields because they were threatened. Ethnic cleansing had an early history here (later I found confirmation of that story on this website). In 1974 the Greek Cypriots left Alaniçi for the south while Turkish Cypriots coming from the south were rehoused in empty Greek villages.
When I asked about the graffiti of EOKA on the churches, the locals became emotional and did not want to talk any more about this subject. It was only then that I realized that the places of the 1974 massmurders were here; I always thought they were close to Lefkosa (Nicosia) and had been looking without ever finding them. The locals were happy to show me the road to those villages: Murataga, Sandallar and Atlilar; I think they were just happy that going there meant I would leave them alone. There was no anger or bitterness in their avoidance: just an immense grief. They would not express that in words. It was like a cloud that had covered them – and me, by the way.
The road went through fields where there seemed to be absolutely nothing. And then, suddenly, it was there. A monument, a graveyard that looked quite new, a short photo exhibition, a sign pointing at the location of a mass grave. It is difficult to imagine that there can be so much hatred in the wideness and largeness of empty fields… but it had been there. I stepped out of the car to take a closer look into the cruel past of Cyprus (to be continued in the next blog).