Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Κάφροι
Κάφροι αναρχικοί και αντιεξουσιαστές...που κάψατε και τη σημαία. Αμερικανάκια, υποκριτές. Αν δέν ήτανε γ'αυτούς που πέθαναν για τη σημαία θα ήθελα να σας δώ μια μεριά τι θά κάνατε αν η Ελλάδα λεγότανε Τουρκία. Και μετά σου λέει δημοκρατία. Και τολμάτε να συσχετίζετε τον εαυτό σας με τους αγωνιστές του πολυτεχνείου, και με τον Che Guevara! Άχρηστοι! Που πετάτε μπουκάλια Molotov με τα χρήματα των γονιών σας.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
To Cross Or Not Cross, That is The Question.
I was asked by an acquaintance recently to help with a project of hers. She wanted to know about people’s perception over the issue of crossing over the buffer zone and into the Turkish occupied areas. What really got me into answering to her e-mail it was her reference to the buffer zone or the Green Line, as it came to be called, as a border. She later on apologized for her mistake, which she did without any malice.
You see a border defines the geographic boundaries of political entities or legal jurisdictions, such as governments, and states, but they can also foster the setting up of buffer zones. By that definition, the buffer zone cannot be consider a border since it does not define a geographic boundary between two governments or states, in this case one being the internationally recognized government of the Republic of Cyprus and the other the illegal and self-proclaimed pseudo state of the Turkish Republic Of Northern Cyprus. The buffer zone in Cyprus does not define a boundary between two states, but rather is a demilitarized zone between the Government of Cyprus and the Turkish Cypriot Community, which with the suppert of the Turkish Army occupies the northern part of the island. As a demilitarized zone which serves as a buffer zone between the two communities, the line can by no means be considered as an international border, as many times is wrongly described by few-many.
I am sure my friend meant no harm, but one needs to know the applicable terminology, in order to process the incoming information in a politically correct manner. Many times one will read an article and then digest the information as it is without cross checking the new info, therefore retaining information that is wrongful. With that in mind a writer should know that it is his/hers responsibility to present the facts right and without prejudice (as much as possible), otherwise its literature can be branded as propaganda, even if it was not meant to be, by eager “tattletales”. Ignorance is to be dreaded, especially in cases like these where it can harm a whole nation.
Enough politics!
I have never been in the other side. My mother and my sister and many friends have done so, making me feel a somewhat kind of a dinosaur. I still stand firm by my believes though. I will not cross the buffer zone and into the occupied areas just as long as I have to stop at a checkpoint, or show any kind of identification, to go see my grandparents' or parents ancestral home. Where do you see that happening anywhere in the world? You can argue that people stop at checkpoints everyday around the world, but none with the special character and status of the buffer zone in Cyprus.
Even though I was against my mother's decision to cross over, on the other hand I can fully understand her eagerness and passion to return at a paradise long lost. My mother crossed over a few times, after her initial one. She only went to her house once. It cost her dearly to see it's current condition, and the door propped open by a stranger. She was only 19 and on vacation from her university, that infamous summer of 74'. After 30 years she only went back once to see her house. She cried, said goodbye, and tried to convince herself that she moved on. But like Kazantzakis puts it "nothing ever dies within us".
All the other times, she would visit places that she visited as well in her teens, on school excursions or family ventures...Bellapais,Keryneia, and places that I have only seen on salvaged pictures or in history schoolbooks. That seemed to please her more than her house in Neapoli. You see nature, can not be tamed (maybe not as much as other things). Nature will always retain its organic-ness however bad we might treat it. A rose's petals will always be petals, a bugamvilia is always a bugamvilia, and the sea will forever crash wave after wave on the rocks on the beach. Things like that don't tend to change so drastically..
My mother made it a point , since she knew deep down that crossing over might not be wrong in her heart's rules, but maybe wrong in other society-imposed rules, to cross over only in other people's (friends) cars, so she wouldn't feel guilty for paying the toll to cross over (hahahaha). She would make sandwiches so she wouldn't have to pay a penny on the other side like many others do, as if the fish on the north or the halumi taste better from the one in the south, I am not saying it doesn't but we are still in Cyprus whether south or north, and a fish is a fish, and haloumi is haloumi. She never went to a casino, like many others do, whom I openly accuse of "treason" for supporting a wrongful regime. There is a difference between the average middle age woman who crosses over to re-live her first love shivers, and get a glimpse of that paradise long lost, and the people who so shamelessly cross over to fuel their gambling addiction...My mother would take with her a small container to bring back earth from her town, something that she didn’t have the time to do when she left hastily in 74…She would carry earth, not poker chips…
On the other hand my sister’s first time was her only time. She cried dearly as well, but was so disenchanted by what she witnessed which was in a complete contrast to what she heard for 19 years and read about in schoolbooks. Ammochostos’ beaches were not golden any more, and the water was not turquoise. The tiles in my grandmother’s house were not like a red-black chessboard as my mother described them (the new “owners” have changed them), the front door was no longer green, and my fathers’ ancestral house in Omorfita was falling apart, its walls crumbling like windblown sand, the façade of the house rendered completely unrecognizable from the “renovations” the new “owners” performed, the door propped open by a woman in a hijab, an image alien to her and Cyprus…She never went back…
The way I see it is, there are three different takes on the same issue. Three different points of view if you like.
The first is my grandparents’ one. My fathers’ father died a refugee, not ever being able to go back to his house where he watched his 8 children grow, never being able to sit on the table he brought food on. He lived 18 years in a “synoikismos” a refugee neighborhood, displaced in his own country. 25 minutes away from Omorfita.
His wife, my grandmother, disabled in a bed due to Alzheimer and Parkinson will never go back either. If my grandfather was alive he wouldn’t have crossed. Just like my grandparents on my mother’s side. They can’t see the point. Why would they cross over to visit their house, which they bled and sweat to build, to see it being occupied by a stranger? Would you like that? Would anyone like that? You bleed, you sacrifice, to provide to your family one of the most essentials in life: shelter; only to see it taken by a stranger. Visualize it! Can you? Can you see the pages of my aunt’s schoolbook flapping about, windblown, on the table in the back yard? Can you see my grandmother’s stew left on the stove? EVERYTHING was left behind. Everything. Because they thought that they would go back. They never did. They lost everything they ever fought for. So I understand why my grandparents wouldn’t want to go back. The want to remember it the way it was. The way they left it. The pages of my aunt’s book flapping around in the wind…
The second point of view, is that of our parent’s generation. My mother’s generation. She went back because she was curious. She never bled for, or worked for what she lost, but it was still hers. Her parents’. She wanted to re-live her teens, her youth. To see the yard were Lumumba, her dog, used to run about. She experienced her environment as a teen in a different way from the one her parents did, and therefore she had different expectations when she went back ,and a different mindset. In her mind crossing over wasn’t as bad as my grandparents thought it was, and it is normal, my grandparents might subconsciously felt the need to visit, but they also knew that they would betraying their sacrifices. And what a word! Visit! Where have you ever heard of one visiting his (own) house…it is a bit of an oxymoron…
The third point of view is the one of our generation. We were never directly acquainted with our parents or grandparents’ past. We never bled, sweat, or fret for anything that our ancestors possessed and lost. We have never been there. We have never seen any of it, except from sepia old pictures with ruffled edges. We know stories. We heard stories. We had dreams about it, but never really were part of it. So, for our generation crossing over carries a different weight in our souls, and depends on how we perceive all these second hand information. From a young boy I was nurtured in a way, which made me feel, that I was a refugee, even though I was never displaced, and never lost anything from the day I was born. I was brought up by refugee parents, and I would spend my first years in my grandparents’ refugee house in Agios Mamas in Lakatamia, where my grandfather would sit in his corner in the living room, smoking incessantly and sipping down zivania, recalling past memories.
I felt a refugee, even though I was never a refugee, because that was how my parents brought me up; to know about Neapoli, and Omorfita, the beautiful northern suburbs of Nicosia, where bugamvillia would climb the walls, and the houses were so close to one another that you could hear your neighbor blinking, where the front door was never locked, and my grandmother’s “krasato” octopus tasted better as if from a different world.
I am 26 now. I now realize that, I felt and I feel a refugee, because it was my parents’ way of preserving their memories. It was my parents’ way of preserving a way of life that no longer is; their way of preserving their paradise long after they are gone…and for that I thank them, for I am a richer man.
Whether I cross over or not, that remains a question to be answered. Will my curiosity and passion to see the things my parents instilled in me from the day of my first steps, will win over the duty that I have toward my morals, and beliefs?
At the end of the day, I think everyone should do whatever the feel, and makes them happy, but should always be careful of how their behavior manifests in the environment that we dwell, and how their actions affect things greater than our own singular unit. And as a post-script I would like to add, that the gamblers in the casinos do not fall into any of the aforementioned categories. They cross over to fuel a gambling addiction, not to seek closure with personal demons, or relive a paradise long lost. They cross over with poker chips, not earth...
Constantino Kouyialis
Copyright. April 2006.
You see a border defines the geographic boundaries of political entities or legal jurisdictions, such as governments, and states, but they can also foster the setting up of buffer zones. By that definition, the buffer zone cannot be consider a border since it does not define a geographic boundary between two governments or states, in this case one being the internationally recognized government of the Republic of Cyprus and the other the illegal and self-proclaimed pseudo state of the Turkish Republic Of Northern Cyprus. The buffer zone in Cyprus does not define a boundary between two states, but rather is a demilitarized zone between the Government of Cyprus and the Turkish Cypriot Community, which with the suppert of the Turkish Army occupies the northern part of the island. As a demilitarized zone which serves as a buffer zone between the two communities, the line can by no means be considered as an international border, as many times is wrongly described by few-many.
I am sure my friend meant no harm, but one needs to know the applicable terminology, in order to process the incoming information in a politically correct manner. Many times one will read an article and then digest the information as it is without cross checking the new info, therefore retaining information that is wrongful. With that in mind a writer should know that it is his/hers responsibility to present the facts right and without prejudice (as much as possible), otherwise its literature can be branded as propaganda, even if it was not meant to be, by eager “tattletales”. Ignorance is to be dreaded, especially in cases like these where it can harm a whole nation.
Enough politics!
I have never been in the other side. My mother and my sister and many friends have done so, making me feel a somewhat kind of a dinosaur. I still stand firm by my believes though. I will not cross the buffer zone and into the occupied areas just as long as I have to stop at a checkpoint, or show any kind of identification, to go see my grandparents' or parents ancestral home. Where do you see that happening anywhere in the world? You can argue that people stop at checkpoints everyday around the world, but none with the special character and status of the buffer zone in Cyprus.
Even though I was against my mother's decision to cross over, on the other hand I can fully understand her eagerness and passion to return at a paradise long lost. My mother crossed over a few times, after her initial one. She only went to her house once. It cost her dearly to see it's current condition, and the door propped open by a stranger. She was only 19 and on vacation from her university, that infamous summer of 74'. After 30 years she only went back once to see her house. She cried, said goodbye, and tried to convince herself that she moved on. But like Kazantzakis puts it "nothing ever dies within us".
All the other times, she would visit places that she visited as well in her teens, on school excursions or family ventures...Bellapais,Keryneia, and places that I have only seen on salvaged pictures or in history schoolbooks. That seemed to please her more than her house in Neapoli. You see nature, can not be tamed (maybe not as much as other things). Nature will always retain its organic-ness however bad we might treat it. A rose's petals will always be petals, a bugamvilia is always a bugamvilia, and the sea will forever crash wave after wave on the rocks on the beach. Things like that don't tend to change so drastically..
My mother made it a point , since she knew deep down that crossing over might not be wrong in her heart's rules, but maybe wrong in other society-imposed rules, to cross over only in other people's (friends) cars, so she wouldn't feel guilty for paying the toll to cross over (hahahaha). She would make sandwiches so she wouldn't have to pay a penny on the other side like many others do, as if the fish on the north or the halumi taste better from the one in the south, I am not saying it doesn't but we are still in Cyprus whether south or north, and a fish is a fish, and haloumi is haloumi. She never went to a casino, like many others do, whom I openly accuse of "treason" for supporting a wrongful regime. There is a difference between the average middle age woman who crosses over to re-live her first love shivers, and get a glimpse of that paradise long lost, and the people who so shamelessly cross over to fuel their gambling addiction...My mother would take with her a small container to bring back earth from her town, something that she didn’t have the time to do when she left hastily in 74…She would carry earth, not poker chips…
On the other hand my sister’s first time was her only time. She cried dearly as well, but was so disenchanted by what she witnessed which was in a complete contrast to what she heard for 19 years and read about in schoolbooks. Ammochostos’ beaches were not golden any more, and the water was not turquoise. The tiles in my grandmother’s house were not like a red-black chessboard as my mother described them (the new “owners” have changed them), the front door was no longer green, and my fathers’ ancestral house in Omorfita was falling apart, its walls crumbling like windblown sand, the façade of the house rendered completely unrecognizable from the “renovations” the new “owners” performed, the door propped open by a woman in a hijab, an image alien to her and Cyprus…She never went back…
The way I see it is, there are three different takes on the same issue. Three different points of view if you like.
The first is my grandparents’ one. My fathers’ father died a refugee, not ever being able to go back to his house where he watched his 8 children grow, never being able to sit on the table he brought food on. He lived 18 years in a “synoikismos” a refugee neighborhood, displaced in his own country. 25 minutes away from Omorfita.
His wife, my grandmother, disabled in a bed due to Alzheimer and Parkinson will never go back either. If my grandfather was alive he wouldn’t have crossed. Just like my grandparents on my mother’s side. They can’t see the point. Why would they cross over to visit their house, which they bled and sweat to build, to see it being occupied by a stranger? Would you like that? Would anyone like that? You bleed, you sacrifice, to provide to your family one of the most essentials in life: shelter; only to see it taken by a stranger. Visualize it! Can you? Can you see the pages of my aunt’s schoolbook flapping about, windblown, on the table in the back yard? Can you see my grandmother’s stew left on the stove? EVERYTHING was left behind. Everything. Because they thought that they would go back. They never did. They lost everything they ever fought for. So I understand why my grandparents wouldn’t want to go back. The want to remember it the way it was. The way they left it. The pages of my aunt’s book flapping around in the wind…
The second point of view, is that of our parent’s generation. My mother’s generation. She went back because she was curious. She never bled for, or worked for what she lost, but it was still hers. Her parents’. She wanted to re-live her teens, her youth. To see the yard were Lumumba, her dog, used to run about. She experienced her environment as a teen in a different way from the one her parents did, and therefore she had different expectations when she went back ,and a different mindset. In her mind crossing over wasn’t as bad as my grandparents thought it was, and it is normal, my grandparents might subconsciously felt the need to visit, but they also knew that they would betraying their sacrifices. And what a word! Visit! Where have you ever heard of one visiting his (own) house…it is a bit of an oxymoron…
The third point of view is the one of our generation. We were never directly acquainted with our parents or grandparents’ past. We never bled, sweat, or fret for anything that our ancestors possessed and lost. We have never been there. We have never seen any of it, except from sepia old pictures with ruffled edges. We know stories. We heard stories. We had dreams about it, but never really were part of it. So, for our generation crossing over carries a different weight in our souls, and depends on how we perceive all these second hand information. From a young boy I was nurtured in a way, which made me feel, that I was a refugee, even though I was never displaced, and never lost anything from the day I was born. I was brought up by refugee parents, and I would spend my first years in my grandparents’ refugee house in Agios Mamas in Lakatamia, where my grandfather would sit in his corner in the living room, smoking incessantly and sipping down zivania, recalling past memories.
I felt a refugee, even though I was never a refugee, because that was how my parents brought me up; to know about Neapoli, and Omorfita, the beautiful northern suburbs of Nicosia, where bugamvillia would climb the walls, and the houses were so close to one another that you could hear your neighbor blinking, where the front door was never locked, and my grandmother’s “krasato” octopus tasted better as if from a different world.
I am 26 now. I now realize that, I felt and I feel a refugee, because it was my parents’ way of preserving their memories. It was my parents’ way of preserving a way of life that no longer is; their way of preserving their paradise long after they are gone…and for that I thank them, for I am a richer man.
Whether I cross over or not, that remains a question to be answered. Will my curiosity and passion to see the things my parents instilled in me from the day of my first steps, will win over the duty that I have toward my morals, and beliefs?
At the end of the day, I think everyone should do whatever the feel, and makes them happy, but should always be careful of how their behavior manifests in the environment that we dwell, and how their actions affect things greater than our own singular unit. And as a post-script I would like to add, that the gamblers in the casinos do not fall into any of the aforementioned categories. They cross over to fuel a gambling addiction, not to seek closure with personal demons, or relive a paradise long lost. They cross over with poker chips, not earth...
Constantino Kouyialis
Copyright. April 2006.
The preceding page is nothing more than an actual excerpt of my life growing up. Time after time my mother would get the same comments from my teachers when she would visit to ask for my progress. She would never chastise me though. She would always ask me to be more…diplomatic. My grades were not bad at all. I was an A student, except the C’s I would get in religious studies…
It was always “he is a fine boy, BUT”… But, I just liked to draw. For me it was just a way to get away to alternative worlds. In my worlds I was the sole ruler and I could do whatever I wanted. I would come up with maps of non-existing worlds and then I would have non-existing civilizations clashing over a non-existing prize. They were all stick figures. The bad would be drawn in red and then the good guys I would draw in blue.
Then years passed, and the fire inside me to pursue what made me happy intensified. So I crossed the Atlantic and made it into this big melting pot that is called America. I remember when I took ART 001, and they brought in some alumni to talk about the industry. One of the guys said: “if you are one of those kids, who were drawing in their textbooks’ margins growing up, the you are at the right place”. Right there, right that moment I knew in my heart, that there is nothing else I would love to do.
However cliché it may sound, this is what I always wanted to do. I knew it since that first day when I was given a blue crayon and asked to draw my family. The only time I strayed, it was in 1986 when Top Gun came out. I wanted to be a fighter pilot then, my other option being an insurance salesman. But I soon came back to the right path.
This is not the first time in my short life, so far, that writing something (anything), means that some self-searching is required. Time and time again, I am asked to look into myself, and find out who I am, why I am here, where I am going, and what do I want in life; from life? Sometimes it only gets harder, and I question a lot of things. But there is one thing that remains constant: my craving for creativity and art.
All these thoughts have turned art and writing (for me) into a quest of soul searching; every single time. Life is a journey. In Ithaca and The Alchemist, Kavafis and Coelho respectively talk about the importance of the journey. Every journey has a beginning and an end. The destination no matter what, we will reach and the end will come inevitably. But how that end comes is the most important thing. We travel with time to become who we are. Art has been a true companion in my journey, and I have started this journey before I can remember.
Constantino Kouyialis
It was always “he is a fine boy, BUT”… But, I just liked to draw. For me it was just a way to get away to alternative worlds. In my worlds I was the sole ruler and I could do whatever I wanted. I would come up with maps of non-existing worlds and then I would have non-existing civilizations clashing over a non-existing prize. They were all stick figures. The bad would be drawn in red and then the good guys I would draw in blue.
Then years passed, and the fire inside me to pursue what made me happy intensified. So I crossed the Atlantic and made it into this big melting pot that is called America. I remember when I took ART 001, and they brought in some alumni to talk about the industry. One of the guys said: “if you are one of those kids, who were drawing in their textbooks’ margins growing up, the you are at the right place”. Right there, right that moment I knew in my heart, that there is nothing else I would love to do.
However cliché it may sound, this is what I always wanted to do. I knew it since that first day when I was given a blue crayon and asked to draw my family. The only time I strayed, it was in 1986 when Top Gun came out. I wanted to be a fighter pilot then, my other option being an insurance salesman. But I soon came back to the right path.
This is not the first time in my short life, so far, that writing something (anything), means that some self-searching is required. Time and time again, I am asked to look into myself, and find out who I am, why I am here, where I am going, and what do I want in life; from life? Sometimes it only gets harder, and I question a lot of things. But there is one thing that remains constant: my craving for creativity and art.
All these thoughts have turned art and writing (for me) into a quest of soul searching; every single time. Life is a journey. In Ithaca and The Alchemist, Kavafis and Coelho respectively talk about the importance of the journey. Every journey has a beginning and an end. The destination no matter what, we will reach and the end will come inevitably. But how that end comes is the most important thing. We travel with time to become who we are. Art has been a true companion in my journey, and I have started this journey before I can remember.
Constantino Kouyialis
Won’t be diplomatic about it
Won’t be diplomatic about it
Constantino "Dino" Kouyialis (Cyprus)
Copyright 2004-2009
I won’t be diplomatic about it. I never liked Turks. If not for anything else they ousted my parents from their home and occupy half of my country for more than thirty years now. I grew up learning in school about my nation’s great struggles to fend off the Ottoman invader, and the triumph of Christianity over Islam. Learned about our heroes getting “skewered” on sticks, patriarchs getting hanged while chanting songs of freedom…
Many years have past since then. I don’t feel like that anymore, and I learned a few more things. I learned that nothing is black and white, and that both sides did mistakes. Some would say, one side did more bad than the other, but wrong is wrong no matter what the numbers say. I realized that the reason all this hatred was transfused from generation to generation was because some fanatics wouldn’t have it any other way. And the few evil can do a lot of bad. It took one man with a funny mustache to bring the world to the brink of destruction. And of course you can always count on the ever-contemporary world powers to either capitulate on that fanaticism and hatred, or stir it up a little bit, so they can get their own. A bit of an old classic “divide and conquer”. And when the few are done taking, and when they are done raping the land, a land that they do not own, who do you think is left to pick up the pieces? Ordinary people will.
Greeks and Turks have fought for centuries. They fought for Cyprus, they fought for the Rome of the East; the pearl of the world, for Constantinople, they fought for Smyrna or Izmir as the Turks call it now, and they are still fighting over the Aegean Sea, but for the most part they lived in peace. The older ones have nice stories to tell. Some of them have bad ones, but why should we remember those? The human mind has a tendency to disregard bad information, and time heals old wounds, and scars. If we are to look back in the past, we should only take the good memories. The smell of orchards! The summer breeze under the pinewood trees. Fruits, spices, colors, women. These are the memories that we should keep. Yes, a nation needs to know its history in order to face the future, but if that past is going to be an obstacle to peace then maybe nations should learn to be more flexible. It’s going to be hard, especially for those who experienced all the grudges, but it is going to be easier for the generations to come. All it takes, it is leaders with vision, and believers. Believers of peace.
I am getting lost as I am writing. This is a matter that affects me personally and I tend to get emotional about it. As I am writing, millions of thoughts and blurry images are going through my mind. And I am struggling; to catch them, materialize them, put them down on paper, and arrange them in some order so they make sense. Do I succeed? I do not know, but what I do know is this: I came to this house, and I met a Turk. His name is Mert. Mert Ulas. In my life I only met four Turks! A small number if you compare them to the amount of French I met…The first one was our guide in Antalya, in southern Turkey during the Junior World Cross Country Championships. The second one was a leather goods salesman in the same city, who sold to me a great quality leather vest for a great price!! He even tried to burn the vest with his Zippo to prove the authenticity of his product! There in his shop my friends and I tasted for the first time a Turkish tea! It wasn’t that bad if you consider that we thought it was made of cyanide! The third one was this waiter at this great Turkish restaurant in London. It was a beautiful April night in Angel. Café Gallipoli was the name. My best friend Ellie took me there because me being a good food lover and all she felt that I would enjoy it. It was quite funny to watch her being all proud about herself taking me there, cause she knew how I felt about it, and she felt it was quite entertaining, me puffing and huffing going there. And indeed, I went there with a bit of skepticism. But then, I opened the menu, and half of the things in it, we eat them as well in Cyprus and Greece. Halloumi was hellim. Keftes was kioftes, and Imam Baldi was Imam Baldi. And it wasn’t just that. As the night progressed, the waiter I was talking about earlier got warmer and warmer, and before I know it he was on the table and dancing. Watching Rauf (I can’t remember his real name) jumping from table to table reminded me of back home, and it made me think; maybe these people aren’t so bad anymore…. and then again there was Ellie’s testimony who claimed that the Turks she was buying halloumi from were top quality lads!
The fourth Turk I met was Mert. The first thing I wanted to do was to crack his skull open! Nah! I’m just joking, but let’s just say that I wasn’t overwhelmed. But then I got to know him a bit and he was alright. Simple as that. After a while I got to know him a bit better so that gave me the intimacy level I was looking for to approach for a kill! The sizzling question? Was he involved with the invasion of my island and did he know anything about it? To my great surprise he knew very few things. I was also flabbergasted to find out that he was not involved with the invasion. I am a very clever man. I did the math and him being 24, it would have been impossible to be involved with the invasion, since he was minus six years old at the time. And right then it hit me! This man knew nothing about my country’s tragedy, let alone being blamed for it. And right there Mert ceased to be a Turk. He was no longer a Turk. He was just Mert. A new acquaintance, a future friend. A few months later Mert and I hosted a Greek-Turkish dinner, with another Greek friend Katerina, for the rest of our housemates. We had a lot of fun that day!
Some say that food brings people together. I agree. I say we have a lot more in common than we have keeping us apart. Some would say the exact opposite, but if the food is the only thing we have in common let it be the thing upon we built our common history…The entire world is divine love shared as food and drink. A meal is not only material, but also it is a profound spiritual experience. They say: “man is what he eats”, and if we eat the same, aren't we the same? I won’t be diplomatic about it; halloumi or hellim it still tastes the same! And it tastes great!
Constantino "Dino" Kouyialis (Cyprus)
Copyright 2004-2009
I won’t be diplomatic about it. I never liked Turks. If not for anything else they ousted my parents from their home and occupy half of my country for more than thirty years now. I grew up learning in school about my nation’s great struggles to fend off the Ottoman invader, and the triumph of Christianity over Islam. Learned about our heroes getting “skewered” on sticks, patriarchs getting hanged while chanting songs of freedom…
Many years have past since then. I don’t feel like that anymore, and I learned a few more things. I learned that nothing is black and white, and that both sides did mistakes. Some would say, one side did more bad than the other, but wrong is wrong no matter what the numbers say. I realized that the reason all this hatred was transfused from generation to generation was because some fanatics wouldn’t have it any other way. And the few evil can do a lot of bad. It took one man with a funny mustache to bring the world to the brink of destruction. And of course you can always count on the ever-contemporary world powers to either capitulate on that fanaticism and hatred, or stir it up a little bit, so they can get their own. A bit of an old classic “divide and conquer”. And when the few are done taking, and when they are done raping the land, a land that they do not own, who do you think is left to pick up the pieces? Ordinary people will.
Greeks and Turks have fought for centuries. They fought for Cyprus, they fought for the Rome of the East; the pearl of the world, for Constantinople, they fought for Smyrna or Izmir as the Turks call it now, and they are still fighting over the Aegean Sea, but for the most part they lived in peace. The older ones have nice stories to tell. Some of them have bad ones, but why should we remember those? The human mind has a tendency to disregard bad information, and time heals old wounds, and scars. If we are to look back in the past, we should only take the good memories. The smell of orchards! The summer breeze under the pinewood trees. Fruits, spices, colors, women. These are the memories that we should keep. Yes, a nation needs to know its history in order to face the future, but if that past is going to be an obstacle to peace then maybe nations should learn to be more flexible. It’s going to be hard, especially for those who experienced all the grudges, but it is going to be easier for the generations to come. All it takes, it is leaders with vision, and believers. Believers of peace.
I am getting lost as I am writing. This is a matter that affects me personally and I tend to get emotional about it. As I am writing, millions of thoughts and blurry images are going through my mind. And I am struggling; to catch them, materialize them, put them down on paper, and arrange them in some order so they make sense. Do I succeed? I do not know, but what I do know is this: I came to this house, and I met a Turk. His name is Mert. Mert Ulas. In my life I only met four Turks! A small number if you compare them to the amount of French I met…The first one was our guide in Antalya, in southern Turkey during the Junior World Cross Country Championships. The second one was a leather goods salesman in the same city, who sold to me a great quality leather vest for a great price!! He even tried to burn the vest with his Zippo to prove the authenticity of his product! There in his shop my friends and I tasted for the first time a Turkish tea! It wasn’t that bad if you consider that we thought it was made of cyanide! The third one was this waiter at this great Turkish restaurant in London. It was a beautiful April night in Angel. Café Gallipoli was the name. My best friend Ellie took me there because me being a good food lover and all she felt that I would enjoy it. It was quite funny to watch her being all proud about herself taking me there, cause she knew how I felt about it, and she felt it was quite entertaining, me puffing and huffing going there. And indeed, I went there with a bit of skepticism. But then, I opened the menu, and half of the things in it, we eat them as well in Cyprus and Greece. Halloumi was hellim. Keftes was kioftes, and Imam Baldi was Imam Baldi. And it wasn’t just that. As the night progressed, the waiter I was talking about earlier got warmer and warmer, and before I know it he was on the table and dancing. Watching Rauf (I can’t remember his real name) jumping from table to table reminded me of back home, and it made me think; maybe these people aren’t so bad anymore…. and then again there was Ellie’s testimony who claimed that the Turks she was buying halloumi from were top quality lads!
The fourth Turk I met was Mert. The first thing I wanted to do was to crack his skull open! Nah! I’m just joking, but let’s just say that I wasn’t overwhelmed. But then I got to know him a bit and he was alright. Simple as that. After a while I got to know him a bit better so that gave me the intimacy level I was looking for to approach for a kill! The sizzling question? Was he involved with the invasion of my island and did he know anything about it? To my great surprise he knew very few things. I was also flabbergasted to find out that he was not involved with the invasion. I am a very clever man. I did the math and him being 24, it would have been impossible to be involved with the invasion, since he was minus six years old at the time. And right then it hit me! This man knew nothing about my country’s tragedy, let alone being blamed for it. And right there Mert ceased to be a Turk. He was no longer a Turk. He was just Mert. A new acquaintance, a future friend. A few months later Mert and I hosted a Greek-Turkish dinner, with another Greek friend Katerina, for the rest of our housemates. We had a lot of fun that day!
Some say that food brings people together. I agree. I say we have a lot more in common than we have keeping us apart. Some would say the exact opposite, but if the food is the only thing we have in common let it be the thing upon we built our common history…The entire world is divine love shared as food and drink. A meal is not only material, but also it is a profound spiritual experience. They say: “man is what he eats”, and if we eat the same, aren't we the same? I won’t be diplomatic about it; halloumi or hellim it still tastes the same! And it tastes great!
Thanks I-House
Thinking back now, I cannot recall whether I was asked to write something for this semester’s biannual newsletter or whether I simply volunteered. Nevertheless, I am more than happy to be sitting here right now, ready to embark on another little pleasurable journey of literacy.
Simply put, I like to write, but what you are reading right now has less to do with literacy, and a lot more with gratitude. Yes! I say gratitude because this is a thank you note to the house, the International House.
At a time when being genuinely friendly and socializing are becoming skills, and the about – to – extinct – mammoth kind of ones, the International House gave me the opportunity to make new friends. New friends! Doesn’t that sound great!! New, polished, shiny, just – out – of – the –box friends! Don’t take me wrong. I have friends. If there is one thing that I am blessed with other than money, looks, gorgeous women, and a Ferrari Enzo, is friends! Real friends. I don’t mean the ones that you interact everyday, and casually refer to them as friends. Or the ones that are good for a few drinks, for a couple of times and then that is it. I mean “caps lock” capital F friends! Not pals, or buddies, or even hommies. My friends are people who have proven themselves as friends through hardship, and fun, and shared experiences. People whom I have sweat with, cried with, laughed with, and laughed at, shed blood with, and enjoyed life with. People whom, you say goodbye, as you are about to fly away, that when you see them again no matter how long it has been to see or hear each other, you can pick up the conversation from where it was left last time, continue sipping that last drink from where it was left…
Some of these bonds where form easily, others I had to fight for. I treasure them all the same…
Here in the House the cliché is that one does not have the time to maybe establish true, real, and long lasting friendships, especially if one is here for only a few months. But that is only if one chooses to follow the cliché.
I’ve been here for some time now. In between my time here I spend two years back in Europe, and that gave me the opportunity to value and appreciate a different kind of forming friends and bonds. Here I’ve noticed people come together, form groups or make friends out of sheer necessity. Because they are away from home, because they need to feel like home, because they need to re-invent that warm feeling that tells them that they are in their “fish bowl”, their own familiar nook. But one does not realize that. All of the above are in one’s subconscious. No one says: “ ok, I am a couple of a thousand miles away from home, so let’s make friends!” It’s an inner need, an intuitive need, and it is not consciously perceived, and that is why these bonds are sincere for as long as they last, because at the same time, when one gets back to its base, and feels that he or she is back in their “original” nook, they cease to be in constant touch with their international friends, and the distance is killing what is left of it...
The other aspect of the I-House friendships is that many times after a bond is formed, one stays behind and the other one goes home, so when the semester starts again what made the House a home is not there anymore, and a lot of people feel jaded and close up. Whether we like it or not, to form friendships is easy but to maintain them it’s harder and people don’t want to work as hard for something they know they are going to loose soon. They don’t want to invest feelings and time, to open their hearts again, to share….
Real friendships in the I-House are hard, but let me promise you this, if you let your self go, and I mean go, put yourself out there, and try not to compare the friendships you had back home with the ones you are forming here, I say again, let me promise you that beautiful things are bound to come your way!
I will say no more. You know where I am going with this… I have experienced all of the above. And there were times that I too felt jaded, but I made my choices, and today I am richer; with more friends, genuine friends, real friends; simply because I acknowledged all of the above and decided to fight for those friendships. And it worked…
So this one’s for you guys: David, Mathieu L. and F. Geraldine, Elena and Mateo, Alan,Keri, and Saro, Souley, Eitan, Adrien, Elke, Ksenia, Beste, Samuel, and Christian, and those who are about to come. Thank you I House.
My soul is full and my heart is open…
2006
Simply put, I like to write, but what you are reading right now has less to do with literacy, and a lot more with gratitude. Yes! I say gratitude because this is a thank you note to the house, the International House.
At a time when being genuinely friendly and socializing are becoming skills, and the about – to – extinct – mammoth kind of ones, the International House gave me the opportunity to make new friends. New friends! Doesn’t that sound great!! New, polished, shiny, just – out – of – the –box friends! Don’t take me wrong. I have friends. If there is one thing that I am blessed with other than money, looks, gorgeous women, and a Ferrari Enzo, is friends! Real friends. I don’t mean the ones that you interact everyday, and casually refer to them as friends. Or the ones that are good for a few drinks, for a couple of times and then that is it. I mean “caps lock” capital F friends! Not pals, or buddies, or even hommies. My friends are people who have proven themselves as friends through hardship, and fun, and shared experiences. People whom I have sweat with, cried with, laughed with, and laughed at, shed blood with, and enjoyed life with. People whom, you say goodbye, as you are about to fly away, that when you see them again no matter how long it has been to see or hear each other, you can pick up the conversation from where it was left last time, continue sipping that last drink from where it was left…
Some of these bonds where form easily, others I had to fight for. I treasure them all the same…
Here in the House the cliché is that one does not have the time to maybe establish true, real, and long lasting friendships, especially if one is here for only a few months. But that is only if one chooses to follow the cliché.
I’ve been here for some time now. In between my time here I spend two years back in Europe, and that gave me the opportunity to value and appreciate a different kind of forming friends and bonds. Here I’ve noticed people come together, form groups or make friends out of sheer necessity. Because they are away from home, because they need to feel like home, because they need to re-invent that warm feeling that tells them that they are in their “fish bowl”, their own familiar nook. But one does not realize that. All of the above are in one’s subconscious. No one says: “ ok, I am a couple of a thousand miles away from home, so let’s make friends!” It’s an inner need, an intuitive need, and it is not consciously perceived, and that is why these bonds are sincere for as long as they last, because at the same time, when one gets back to its base, and feels that he or she is back in their “original” nook, they cease to be in constant touch with their international friends, and the distance is killing what is left of it...
The other aspect of the I-House friendships is that many times after a bond is formed, one stays behind and the other one goes home, so when the semester starts again what made the House a home is not there anymore, and a lot of people feel jaded and close up. Whether we like it or not, to form friendships is easy but to maintain them it’s harder and people don’t want to work as hard for something they know they are going to loose soon. They don’t want to invest feelings and time, to open their hearts again, to share….
Real friendships in the I-House are hard, but let me promise you this, if you let your self go, and I mean go, put yourself out there, and try not to compare the friendships you had back home with the ones you are forming here, I say again, let me promise you that beautiful things are bound to come your way!
I will say no more. You know where I am going with this… I have experienced all of the above. And there were times that I too felt jaded, but I made my choices, and today I am richer; with more friends, genuine friends, real friends; simply because I acknowledged all of the above and decided to fight for those friendships. And it worked…
So this one’s for you guys: David, Mathieu L. and F. Geraldine, Elena and Mateo, Alan,Keri, and Saro, Souley, Eitan, Adrien, Elke, Ksenia, Beste, Samuel, and Christian, and those who are about to come. Thank you I House.
My soul is full and my heart is open…
2006
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Untitled 1
"Ακόμα και η πιό μεγάλη αποτυχία, ακόμα και το χειρότερο ανέκκλητο λάθος, είναι πολύ καλύτερο απο το να μήν προσπαθήσεις ποτέ..."
Κ.Κ. 2009
Κ.Κ. 2009
Life is short
“Επειδή δέν γνωρίζουμε πότε θα πεθάνουμε, έχουμε κάνει το σφάλμα να αντιλαμβανόμαστε τη ζωή ως ένα πηγάδι αστείρευτο. Η αλήθεια είναι όμως ότι οι φορές που θα ζήσουμε κάποια πράγματα είναι λίγες, πολύ λίγες. Πόσες φορές ακόμα θα θυμηθούμε ενα κυριακάτικο πρωινό των παιδικών μας χρόνων; ενα πρωινό που είναι τόσο βαθιά χαραγμένο μέσα μας, κομμάτι μας, που δέν μπορούμε να φανταστούμε τη ζωή μας χωρίς αυτό. Πόσες φορές ακόμα θα ζήσουμε τον έρωτα, ένα αυγουστιάτικο απόγευμα δίπλα στη θάλασσα, λουσμένοι στα μάυρα της μαλλιά; Ίσως τρείς, ή τέσσερεις φορές ακόμα; Πόσες φορές ακόμα θα δούμε τον ήλιο να σκαρφαλώνει τον ουρανό; Είκοσι ίσως; Και όμως όλα φαντάζουν ατελείωτα…”
Life is short. So take nothing for granted and live it to the full. Don't let your self get bogged down in pettiness...
Life is short. So take nothing for granted and live it to the full. Don't let your self get bogged down in pettiness...
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