The Island of Missing Trees(38)
Michalis did not approve of EOKA or any kind of nationalism for that matter. He made no secret of his views, openly criticizing the blue-painted signs that by now had started to appear on almost every wall in the neighbourhood – Long Live ENOSIS, Death to Traitors …
If Kostas was not like his older brother, neither did he resemble his younger brother. Andreas, a tall, lithe boy with large brown eyes and a shy smile, had changed profoundly in the course of just a few months. He spoke of Grivas, the leader of EOKA-B, who had died recently in hiding, as if he were a saint, calling him Digenis, after the legendary Byzantine hero. Andreas said he was ready to swear an oath on the Bible to liberate Cyprus from enemies – both Brits and Turks – and to this end, he was willing to kill or die. But because he had a tendency to voice whatever came to mind, and because he was the youngest in the family, always loved and pampered, they never quite believed he really meant any of it.
The three brothers, although once very close, nowadays lived under the same roof with minimal intersection between their worlds. They rarely quarrelled, assenting to Panagiota’s rules, tiptoeing around each other’s truths.
This was their life, until one morning in March, in plain daylight, Michalis was murdered. He was shot on the street, a book under his arm, the poem he was reading still marked. The gunman’s identity was never revealed. Some said it was the Turkish nationalists that had targeted him for being Christian and Greek; others said it was the Greek nationalists that hated him for being a vocal critic. And though it was never officially proved who had done it, Andreas, through his own sources, was convinced he had discovered the truth. Kostas saw the flame of revenge catch in his younger brother’s soul, burning stronger every day. Then, one night, Andreas did not come home, his bed untouched.
They never spoke about it, but Panagiota and Kostas both knew Andreas had left to join EOKA-B’s ranks. Since then they had heard no news of him and had no idea whether he was alive or dead. Now it was only Kostas and his mother left in this house that had shrunk and darkened at the edges, curling into itself like a letter saved from the flames.
At night, when the moon shone high above the lemon trees and there was a shiver in the air, of insects invisible to the eye or fairies sent to earth in exile, Kostas would sometimes catch his mother staring at him with a pained expression. He could not help but wonder whether, despite her generous, loving heart, she ever asked herself or the saints she trusted so much why it was her most eloquent, passionate son who had been murdered and why it was her most adventurous, idealistic son who had abandoned home, leaving behind this diffident, distracted middle son she could never quite fathom.
Fig Tree
I once heard an English journalist who dined at The Happy Fig say that politicians in Europe and America were trying to get their heads around the situation on our island. In the aftermath of the Suez Crisis, there were protests in London, somewhere called Trafalgar Square. People carried banners that said, ‘Law Not War’. Now when I look back, I realize youngsters hadn’t yet started to chant, ‘Love Not War’. That would come later.
The same journalist explained to his tablemates that over there in England, in the House of Commons where all important decisions were made, members of parliament were discussing ‘the Cyprus problem’. He said that, in his experience, it never bode well for a country, or a community, once it was branded as ‘a problem’ and that was what our island had become now in the eyes of the entire world, ‘an international crisis’.
Even so, back then, experts believed it was just ‘paper agitation’, the tension and violence that seized our land; they said it was a storm in a teacup and it would be over soon. There was no need to fear mayhem and bloodshed because how could there be a civil war on such a pretty, picturesque island of blooming flowers and rolling hills? ‘Cultivated’ was the word they used repeatedly. These politicians and pundits seemed to assume that civilized humans could not slaughter each other, not against an idyllic backdrop of verdant hills and golden beaches: ‘There is no need to do anything about it. The Cypriots are … civilized people. They will never do anything violent or drastic.’
Only a few weeks after these statements were uttered in the British parliament, four hundred separate attacks had been staged across Cyprus. British, Turkish, Greek blood was spilled, and the earth absorbed it all, as it always does.
In 1960 Cyprus gained independence from the United Kingdom. No more a Crown Colony. That was a hopeful year, it felt like a new beginning, with some sort of calm reigning between the Greeks and the Turks. A permanent peace suddenly seemed possible, within reach, like a glowing, fuzzy peach hanging from a drooping branch, there at your fingertips. A new government was formed with members drawn from both sides. Finally, they were working together, Christians and Muslims. In those days, people who believed the different communities could live in amity and harmony as equal citizens often alluded to a native bird as their emblem: a type of partridge, the chukar, that built its nests on both sides of the island, heedless of divisions. That, for a while, became an apt symbol for unity.
It wasn’t to last long. Political and spiritual leaders who reached out to the other side were silenced, shunned and intimidated – and some were targeted and killed by extremists on their own side.
It is a small, charming creature, the chukar, with black stripes wrapping around its body. It likes to perch on rocks, and when it sings, it does so in shy, scratchy notes, as though learning to chirp for the first time. If you listen closely, you can hear it say chukar-chukar-chukar. The only bird that tenderly trills out its own name.