Sunrise. It had quickly established itself as the number one hotel in Cyprus and they were obliged to turn potential guests away. They simply did not have enough rooms.
Hüseyin sometimes looked at these tourists and realised how unaware they were of the tensions on the island. Vacations were a time for rest and relaxation, a chance for businessmen to enjoy time with their wives and children in a place where the office could not reach them. A few browsed the headlines of the international newspapers available in the hotel’s bookshop, but did not remove them from the carousel. The Cyprus papers were not sold in the hotel; only the
International Herald Tribune
,
The
Times
,
Le Figaro
and
Die Zeit
stood alongside the glossy magazines and a few paperbacks.
Hüseyin knew that the front pages of local newspapers would have disturbed them. Behind the beautiful tableau of sea, sun and sand, a civil war simmered while tourists remained entirely oblivious. The atmosphere of uncertainty unsettled every Cypriot, whether or not they were directly threatened.
There were always papers lying around at home, usually brought in by his father or Ali, and they inevitably provoked discussion and argument. In the past few months there had been dozens of bombings and attacks, mostly against police stations, during which sizeable quantities of arms and ammunition had been seized. In April there had been more than thirty explosions in a single day in Paphos, Limassol and Larnaca.
‘Don’t fret too much,’ said Emine when she saw Hüseyin frowning over the headlines. ‘We’re not the targets this time.’
‘Your mother’s right,’ said his father, Halit. ‘It’s not us they’re trying to terrorise. And it looks as if Makarios is having some success in any case.’
To counter the activities of EOKA B, Makarios had set up a new auxiliary force, the Tactical Police Reserve. It was used to go on search missions and that month had captured forty Grivas supporters.
‘It was different in the 1960s,’ Halit Özkan reassured his children. ‘We feared for our lives just walking down the street.’
Hüseyin did not need reminding. Even though he had been a boy then, he remembered those times well, especially the summer of 1964 when the island had been close to war. Greeks had attacked the Turkish village of Kokkina in the north, believing it to be a landing place for arms from Turkey. Turkey had retaliated with napalm and rockets. Although an all-out war was averted, the area had been put under an economic blockade and families like his own had experienced severe deprivation.
It was after this that Halit Özkan had moved his family to the enclaved village. They were soon joined by his widowed sister and her son, Mehmet. It was safer, but it was imprisoning too. What Hüseyin recalled most vividly was feeling hungry all the time. They shared everything they had, but it was never enough. Basic foodstuffs were not reaching the community and they were living off whatever his father and cousin could get hold of when they took the risk to leave the area.
He remembered his mother being frantic if they were not back before dusk. She would stand by the door looking up the street for what to the child seemed like hours, and when they finally appeared she would hold her hands out to his father and embrace him as though he had been missing for weeks.
There was a day when his father returned alone. Within moments their street was full of people gathered round him, and lots of people were speaking at once. Hüseyin had been left on the outside of the circle, standing on tiptoe, straining to see one or other of his parents.
The boy was too young to be told what was going on, but there was quiet weeping among the women and an unusual silence between the men. He waited with dread. Something was going to happen.
Not long afterwards he saw his father being driven out of the village. It was July, and a huge cloud of dust rose up behind the truck.
Nobody
Hüseyin sometimes looked at these tourists and realised how unaware they were of the tensions on the island. Vacations were a time for rest and relaxation, a chance for businessmen to enjoy time with their wives and children in a place where the office could not reach them. A few browsed the headlines of the international newspapers available in the hotel’s bookshop, but did not remove them from the carousel. The Cyprus papers were not sold in the hotel; only the
International Herald Tribune
,
The
Times
,
Le Figaro
and
Die Zeit
stood alongside the glossy magazines and a few paperbacks.
Hüseyin knew that the front pages of local newspapers would have disturbed them. Behind the beautiful tableau of sea, sun and sand, a civil war simmered while tourists remained entirely oblivious. The atmosphere of uncertainty unsettled every Cypriot, whether or not they were directly threatened.
There were always papers lying around at home, usually brought in by his father or Ali, and they inevitably provoked discussion and argument. In the past few months there had been dozens of bombings and attacks, mostly against police stations, during which sizeable quantities of arms and ammunition had been seized. In April there had been more than thirty explosions in a single day in Paphos, Limassol and Larnaca.
‘Don’t fret too much,’ said Emine when she saw Hüseyin frowning over the headlines. ‘We’re not the targets this time.’
‘Your mother’s right,’ said his father, Halit. ‘It’s not us they’re trying to terrorise. And it looks as if Makarios is having some success in any case.’
To counter the activities of EOKA B, Makarios had set up a new auxiliary force, the Tactical Police Reserve. It was used to go on search missions and that month had captured forty Grivas supporters.
‘It was different in the 1960s,’ Halit Özkan reassured his children. ‘We feared for our lives just walking down the street.’
Hüseyin did not need reminding. Even though he had been a boy then, he remembered those times well, especially the summer of 1964 when the island had been close to war. Greeks had attacked the Turkish village of Kokkina in the north, believing it to be a landing place for arms from Turkey. Turkey had retaliated with napalm and rockets. Although an all-out war was averted, the area had been put under an economic blockade and families like his own had experienced severe deprivation.
It was after this that Halit Özkan had moved his family to the enclaved village. They were soon joined by his widowed sister and her son, Mehmet. It was safer, but it was imprisoning too. What Hüseyin recalled most vividly was feeling hungry all the time. They shared everything they had, but it was never enough. Basic foodstuffs were not reaching the community and they were living off whatever his father and cousin could get hold of when they took the risk to leave the area.
He remembered his mother being frantic if they were not back before dusk. She would stand by the door looking up the street for what to the child seemed like hours, and when they finally appeared she would hold her hands out to his father and embrace him as though he had been missing for weeks.
There was a day when his father returned alone. Within moments their street was full of people gathered round him, and lots of people were speaking at once. Hüseyin had been left on the outside of the circle, standing on tiptoe, straining to see one or other of his parents.
The boy was too young to be told what was going on, but there was quiet weeping among the women and an unusual silence between the men. He waited with dread. Something was going to happen.
Not long afterwards he saw his father being driven out of the village. It was July, and a huge cloud of dust rose up behind the truck.
Nobody
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