Paris Demetriades
I have always been troubled by, if not fascinated by, the disorder that defines Cyprus’s contemporary architectural identity. Quite literally, anyone could build, and still can build, anything, anywhere. Aesthetic consistency and supposedly protected areas of environmental or cultural significance are little more than empty words.
It is an almost surreal situation that seems to have spiraled completely out of control, particularly after the events of 1974. Although I was not born at the time, and have little patience for dwelling on the past, I cannot look at photographs and videos from the 1940s, 1950s, and 1960s without concluding that our cities were more beautiful back then. They were simpler and smaller, but more beautiful. At some point, it is as though the sense of aesthetic refinement that once existed simply vanished. But how could it have been otherwise after the brutal and violent displacement of almost half the island’s population and the forced relocation of people from one place to another? How could an event of such magnitude not have had a profound effect on our architectural identity?
I do not believe that condemning everything outright or dismissing it altogether is a mature way of looking at what is happening around us. In this case, I am talking about the actual buildings that surround us. I remember, meanwhile, the overwhelmingly positive impression Cyprus’s diversity made on a French couple of friends of mine when they visited a few years ago and traveled around the entire island. I recall how enthusiastically they described, with a mixture of surprise and curiosity, how Paphos felt like a completely different “planet” from Limassol, Nicosia, Ayia Napa, Troodos, and everywhere else they visited.
The diversity and variety found on our island are undoubtedly remarkable. Within a relatively narrow strip of land, the scenery changes almost endlessly, from one geographical landscape to another, and from one cultural and demographic setting to the next. It is one of Cyprus’s most captivating characteristics, rooted in both its fascinating geography and its complex, turbulent history.
Returning to architecture, as irritating as the arbitrary decisions and irregularities may be, there is something to be said for considering how closely they are connected to the historical and sociopolitical events that have shaped us. This perspective offers an explanation and, to some extent, perhaps even a little consolation. Put simply, our architectural mishmash is a fascinating and revealing mirror of who we are. We certainly do not have a coherent identity when it comes to architecture, but could that, in itself, be a form of identity?
At the end of the day, aesthetics is a matter of personal taste. Perhaps, then, we should focus more on the functionality and practicality of the way we live. How much does it really matter whether we like a building when the public space around it is often nonexistent, the sidewalks are broken or too narrow, and the idea of having enough urban greenery in a country like ours seems as complicated as nuclear physics? And what about getting around without a car? That subject keeps appearing in the news, only for nothing to change. In Cyprus, traveling without a car is quite literally an achievement in itself.
Ultimately, there is no need to make Limassol look like Barcelona or Tel Aviv, Nicosia look like Vienna or Zurich, or Paphos resemble a picturesque little town in Tuscany or Andalusia. Nor should we try to impose an artificial uniformity that would erase everything that makes us who we are, the product of centuries of coexistence among different cultures and traditions.
Perhaps all we need to do is come up with imaginative ways to reconcile, so to speak, this fascinating and sometimes chaotic architectural disorder with basic principles of sustainability and respect for public space. A place's architectural identity is not defined solely by its buildings, how polished they look, or how well they fit together according to the standards of other cultures. It is also reflected in how those spaces allow people to live, work, and move around.
