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"They did not even spare the stone altar..."
by Luigi Geninazzi
Europe ends here, in the most beautiful island of the Mediterranean, torn
by
a wall that splits it in two. Europe ends abruptly along a barrier of
barbed
wire, cement, and military turrets that splits Cyprus along its entire
width
and divides Nicosia, a capital wounded in its ancient heart.
For the UN, which guards over it with its blue helmets, it is the “green
line.” But here the people continue to call it the “Attila line,”
from the
name that the Turks gave to the invasion.
The scourge has left its marks. It has struck Cyprus, the site of the most
ancient Christian community on European soil, in its artistic, cultural,
and
religious treasury: stupendous Byzantine and Romanesque churches, imposing
monasteries, mosaics and frescoes of inestimable value. It is a heritage
that in the northern part of the island, under Turkish occupation, has
been
sacked, violated, and destroyed.
To realize this it is enough to cross the “Attila line” at the
checkpoint of
Nicosia, and there you are in the so-called Turkish Republic of Northern
Cyprus, which greets the visitor with a large banner on which is written a
topsy-turvy welcome: “How happy I am to be a Turk!” (a famous phrase
of
Kemal Ataturk). The nationalist pride of the descendents of the Ottoman
empire has also modified the natural countryside, carving the crescent
moon
and the red star on the side of the Pentadattilos mountains, which
dominate
the wide plains.
The Turkish flag billows on the façade of the church of Agia Paraskevi,
in
the once Greek Orthodox village of Angastina. A sign says that work is
underway to transform it into a mosque. The bell tower, which no longer
bears a cross, is a strange minaret with the loudspeaker of the muezzin
fixed upon an archway.
Christodoulos, the young archeologist accompanying me, is visibly shaken:
“I
was baptized here,” he says in a voice hoarse with emotion. He is one of
the
200,000 Greek Cypriot refugees who, thirty years ago, lived in the north
of
the island and were chased out of their homes.
Christodoulos kneels on the spot where he was once baptized and lights a
candle. The Turkish construction workers, squatting in front of the apse
for
their lunch break, look at him curiously: “Every time I come back to
this
area, it’s always worse,” he sighs.
We stop at Trachoni, where a jewel of the Renaissance once stood, the
church
of the Panagia, Our Lady. Now only the walls are left; the interior bears
the signs of vandalism that has not spared even the stone altar, the
pieces
of which have ended up in a hole dug recently to search for who knows what
treasure.
Ours is a sad pilgrimage that at every stop adds to one’s outrage and
disbelief, a via dolorosa that retraces the places of Christian memory at
risk of disappearing. At the village of Peristerona, on the road to
Famagosta, the medieval monastery of Saint Anastasia (see photo) is being
used as a stable, with the cows chewing their cud amid what remains of the
ancient cells. The tombs of the cemetery have been profaned, and the
gravestones broken.
We leave the countryside behind and go to the coast. Here many of the
churches have been turned into restaurants, bars, and nightclubs, for the
enjoyment of the tourists. At the top of the rock of Lapethos, which juts
out over the sea, the church and convent of Agia Anastasia have become a
sumptuous hotel with a swimming pool dug into the cloister, and a casino
under the bell tower.
Almost the entire artistic patrimony of the Orthodox Church in the
territory
occupied by the Turks – 520 buildings between churches, chapels, and
monasteries – has been sacked, demolished, or disfigured. Only three
churches and one monastery, the monastery of Saint Barnabas, which has
been
turned into a museum, are in a more or less dignified state.
“The ruin is before our eyes, but the European Union prefers to look the
other way,” the Cypriot foreign minister, George Iacovou, bitterly tells
us.
“The only hope is that, in the course of negotiations for Turkey’s
adhesion
to the EU, someone might pull out the dossier of shame.”
The Byzantine Academy of Nicosia has gathered detailed and meticulous
documentation on the occupied churches in Cyprus. And for two years an
attempt has been made at religious dialogue, with the sup****t of the
Orthodox bishop Nikiforos of the historic monastery of Kykko: “We have
met
with the Muslim leaders headed by Lefka, and I told them that respect for
our places of wor****p is the basis for cooperation.” Nikiforos is
moderately
optimistic: “I encountered a lot of understanding. Errors have been made
on
both sides; we must overcome the divisions of the past and walk
together.”
But the last word belongs to the politicians. Huseyn Ozel, a government
spokesman for the so-called Turkish Republic of Northern Cyprus, displays
great cordiality with the foreign journalist. The destroyed and sacked
churches? “There was a war, and bad things happened on both sides,” he
explains.
I point out to him that most of the mosques in Greek Cypriot territory
have
been restored, while his government has authorized the transformation of
churches into restaurants and hotels, an insult to the sentiment of
believers. “They did this to keep the buildings from falling into ruin,
and
anyway, these are decisions made by the preceding government, which I do
not
share,” Ozel counters.
I insist: what do you have to say about the churches that, still today,
are
being turned into mosques? The Turkish Cypriot functionary spreads his
arms
wide: “It is an Ottoman custom...”
It as a tradition that, unfortunately, continues. An unsettling calling
card
for a Turkey that aspires to enter the European club.
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